


Mountain Storm

by TheWatcherObserves



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Bad Weather, Complete, F/M, Friendship, Major Character Injury, Reconciliation, Resurrection, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 43,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWatcherObserves/pseuds/TheWatcherObserves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Poole's managed to resurrect himself pretty well. Can he resurrect his relationship with Camille Bordey, the stunning - and French - love of his life? </p><p>So far, it doesn't look good for Richard...</p><p>There are two easter eggs here: one is in the story (first 1/4) and the other is about the story.<br/>First one to find both gets a shout out here.<br/>Have fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> This story is meant to explain Richard's death and life without too much break of canon. It's got some medical tech because BBC did *kill* the poor guy. 
> 
> In other words, this story doesn't dump DI Humphrey Goodman's episodes; all of Richard's activities while "dead" occur well away from the Caribbean and in parallel to Humphrey's tenure as chief. Obviously, because this is fiction about fiction, there will be times when there are differences between my rendering of Camille's experiences and the actual Humphrey Goodman canon.
> 
> This isn't a forensic procedural - 
> 
> It's about two people trying to recover from the hurt they're causing each other.

Richard’s first birthday since his death occurred on a particularly nice day where the breezes refreshed and the sun shone from behind clouds. The sad smile reflected back to her as she applied her make-up came from the realization that Richard would have appreciated the gift of temperature relief afforded by the weather.

Dressing comfortably she completed her packing just as the horn sounded on the Rover.

 

“Camille! Come on, girl! The Commissioner threatened to make me walk a beat if you miss that plane.”

“Okay, Dwayne!” she called as she left La Kaz by the loading entrance.

 

Dwayne understood the day’s significance to her; she would insist on going past the cemetery despite her knowledge that his body wasn’t there - it had been shipped to his parents in Britain for burial. Dwayne continued to wonder when her grief’s impact would subside, even a little. She’d become reckless since Poole’s death and Dwayne worried that the law of averages would eventually exact payment.

  _Chief should have married her,_ Dwayne mused, frustrated with Richard Poole’s stubborn cluelessness. Eyes following her walk to the Rover, Dwayne concluded he’d need to look after her a while longer.

 

Confirming the cemetery as their first stop, he cranked the engine and pulled off faster than necessary.

 

 


	2. Instruction

As the grinding of the landing gear receded, Camille loosened her seat belt and stretched. Leaning forward, she retrieved the pouch containing the materials she’d use in Paris. No one had been more surprised than Camille at her reassignment. She’d spoken with Richard on more than one occasion about the increased number of murders per month since his arrival as Chief of Police. 

 

He’d retorted that she forgot the adjective “solved”.

 

Her instincts had been spot on - Saint-Marie found itself a preferred location for smugglers, money launderers and human trafficker, although they’d encountered only minimal trafficking on the cases they had worked together.  

Regardless, with Richard Poole dead and buried, Camille became the resident expert on the criminal exploitation of the idyllic island’s lack of sophisticated surveillance, forensics or interdiction resources. She bested Richard in one area - he’d never worked undercover. With that last thought Camille distracted her grief with the materials in the portfolio.

 

Time passed. Meals came. Her appetite had been iffy since that day when she’d grabbed Dwayne’s arm, struggling not to scream as Richard lay before her with an ice pick buried in his chest. The memory twisted her stomach as the event had. She had no interest now in food, politely accepting the offered meal to save the attendant a trip if her appetite recovered later. Requesting a ginger beer, Camille found the next portfolio bundle and read on.

 

With six more uninterrupted hours ahead, she had plenty of time to study the dossier from the Sûreté.

Funny how Richard pestered her about using the name “Sûreté” - the service had been renamed long ago. She countered that her preference for the name came from her enjoyment of his inability to pronounce it without that ridiculous British accent. The “Sûr” syllable forever came out flat with too much palate and not enough head voice as “Sure”. The “sh” phoneme in his rendering set her teeth on edge. It would heal her heart to hear it spoken badly by him again. 

Suddenly uninterested in preparing for the briefing, she reclined her business class seat - an unexpected upgrade from the Commissioner - and closed her eyes so that the attentive flight staff would not note her tears and insist on being helpful or expressing their concerns.

 

As a Catholic, Camille understood resurrection to be beyond the skills taught in the flight attendant classes.

 

 

 


	3. Conference

Undercover work in Europe and the Caribbean brought useful skills, such as the ability to use airport bathrooms to effect complete appearance changes. 

 Camille emerged from the Women’s restroom dressed in a fashionable professional suit just as the page came over the intercom. Thanks to high numbers of French tourist unaware of Saint-Marie’s handover to the British, she’d flown direct into Le Bourget airport, only four miles from the Stade de France venue’s meeting rooms.

Briskly walking to the nearest courtesy phone, Camille dialed the reply number.

 

“Camille Bordey, 66501245”

 

Less than a second passed until a voice responded.

 

“Je suis familier avec cette sortie. Attendez! Le parking serait plus facile. Je vous retrouverai à l'ascenseur au niveau 3.”

 

A small smile of agreement passed her lips.

 

“D’accord”

 

Placing the handset back in the cradle, Camille grabbed her carry-on and made her way to the rendezvous point. A hundred feet from the airport sat her hotel, La Park et Suites Elegance Le Bourget. She decided to check in later and continued to the meeting place.

After a short drive, the uniformed officer pulled into the VIP lane and stopped. Rushing to the opposite side he opened the door for Camille, failing miserably to avert his eyes from her legs. Camille hid a grin, unwilling to embarrass the young officer in what was probably his first escort assignment. 

 

“Merci, Officer -,” Camille glanced at his badge, “Morel.”

 

She smiled her satisfaction with his service and the poor boy began to ogle her.

  _Richard did that. Frequently...,_ she recalled without rancor. 

 By the end of her latest Richard reverie the young officer had retrieved her travel bag and extended his arm to indicate she should enter the building. He followed closely behind.

 To her surprise, Commissioner Patterson - head of the Saint-Marie police force and her boss - stood outside the VIP lounge.

 

“Sergeant Bordey. Or should I call you Agent Bordey?” he asked with an understanding smile.

 “Either is fine, sir. Commissioner, what are you doing here?” she asked with irritation creeping into her tone.

 

No one understood the impact - no, no one  ** _felt_** the impact - of Richard’s loss more than she. But she wasn’t incompetent; she had more deep cover experience than DCI Poole in all three concern areas. The lack of trust rankled her, making respectful discourse with her superior officer difficult.

 

“Agent Bordey, I’m here to represent Saint-Marie. You are, as I remember, representing the Sûreté - as you insist on calling it - on the international panel?”

 

His expression told her the soft words were meant as a reminder, not a rebuke.

 

“Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Camille, it will take time. Replacing those we love always does.” 

 

Her eyes shot up to meet his.

 

“I have complete confidence in your capabilities, Agent. Come. Let’s get some refreshments and find our seats.”

 

Camille allowed herself to be directed through registration, introductions, refreshment choices - thank the good God they were in France where wine was served at business meetings, and seating.  Back in the here and now, she gave her attention over to the speaker.

 

“As you all know, we’re here to address an alarming rise in organized crime in the Caribbean basin. The best indication that major crime activity is occurring is the arrival of large portions of money. In the 21st century this is invariably accompanied by identity reallocation processing and distribution. A murder at a cosmetic surgery center on Saint-Marie tipped us to the expanding presence of these identity reallocation groups in the Caribbean. I’d like to introduce one of our best deep cover forensics agents.  

“For nearly a year he’s been working undercover in one of the major crime syndicates, getting details on the structure of the stolen identities business. He’ll be returning to his more public law enforcement role in the Caribbean after this meeting. 

 

“May I present Richard Poole, Chief of the Saint-Marie Police Department.”

 

Commissioner Selwyn Patterson of Saint-Marie caught Camille when she fainted.

 

* * *

  

The conference took a half-hour break after her collapse. A resurrected Richard Poole elbowed everyone out of the way - including the Commissioner - to gather her in his arms and deliver her to the Infirmary. Being Camille, she regained her consciousness and her composure rapidly. 

The conference organizers offered to reschedule Poole’s portion to ensure she could take full advantage of the information but she politely declined, insisting she’d never fainted before and would be fine. 

Rising from the examination table to rejoin the conference, she joked about airline food before catching and holding Richard’s gaze; with mock concern she wondered aloud if she should use her home testing kit when she checked into her suite. Laughter established that the “possibly pregnant” joke had been understood.

Everyone enjoyed her levity given the circumstances - except Richard.

 

The keynote speaker tried to share a ride with her to her hotel but Camille gave him the slip, taking advantage of the sports venue’s many exits and her knowledge of the language.  By the time Richard made himself understood in his search for her, she and Elvis had left the building. Hurried questioning of the Commissioner gave him enough information to intercept her at the hotel.

 

Except Camille wasn’t there. She’d checked out with no forwarding address.

 

Desperate to make things right with her he dialed her mobile at least twice an hour leading to a completely sleepless night. He tried once from his hotel phone and got to her answering message; she’d programmed her cell to block  _his_  calls. Stuttering and spluttering in his message to her, he tried and failed to say what he felt. 

The game of “Catch Camille” continued throughout the conference.

 

For the first time since Richard left his SOCA assignment, heart-pounding fear escalated within him: if he didn’t corral her at tonight’s closing banquet, life in Saint-Marie would be unbearable - he might as well stay in Europe.

 

* * *

 

Richard arrived early for the banquet. Much though he appreciated the accolades so long in coming, the discussions put more and more distance between himself and the entrance Camille would use. 

Respect and acknowledgment had eluded Richard during his Met career until he became leader of the Saint-Marie team. Now, when he most deserved these acknowledgements, they came at the price of repairing his relationship with his most important partner.

 

When Camille entered, Richard stopped breathing and thinking.

 

The goddess before him captured the attention of every male with a pulse, wait staff and security included. Had it been able to, Richard’s gift of observation would have noted the less than pleased expressions displayed by most of the women in the room. Camille’s nonchalant manner made her more alluring. The archetypal French siren stood amongst them.

Richard’s paralysis at her overpowering beauty cost him any chance of starting the reconciliation process. Professional admirers thwarted his plan to sidle up to her and force a conversation. He’d always argued with Camille about her “Men acting like School Boys” generalizations during their investigations. If she ever spoke to him again, he’d admit how wrong he’d been. Rooted to the floor, perspiration and jealousy coating him like armor, he silently seethed as Camille dazzled the “school boys” with her wit and beauty. 

 

Before them all stood the perfect woman: able to talk shop all day, play "school boys’ games" all evening and slake their prurient thirsts all night. Frustrated and in love, Richard made his way to his seat on the dais to wait out the evening.

 

Seated where she never left his sight, Richard fumed over the single beer he nursed all evening. His jaw clenched at the school boy crush behavior - the fawning, the casual touching, the perpetual requests to dance that she politely declined, the constant refilling of her drink, the too-quick and too-loud laughter at her bon mots, the... the...  **attention**  being paid to the woman he loved. 

After almost a year of caution, fear and danger, this Richard Poole wasn’t half as timid or insecure as the one SOCA had murdered on Saint-Marie.

 

“She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she?”

“You better bloody well believe it!”

“Her picture on our tourist brochures might improve our revenue. We could renovate the police station - install air conditioning.”

 

The green-tinged jealousy sensor in Richard’s head notified Richard that Commissioner Patterson sat beside him.

 

“Give her time, Chief Inspector. Some cases affect our lives more than others. Camille’s had a difficult year.”

 

Lowering the bottle of beer to the table, Richard faced the Commissioner for the first time.

 

“I’ll leave you to your ale and rescue Camille. I understand Harp is almost as good as our local brew on Saint-Marie; let me know - I’ll ask Catherine to lay some in at La Kaz. I believe Agent Bordey will be leaving the day after tomorrow. It would be a shame if you left without seeing Paris.”

 

The scraping of the chair legs alerted Richard that the Commissioner left before receiving Richard’s comment. In the distance he heard the Commissioner applying his admirable political skills to extricate Camille diplomatically. She left on the Commissioner’s arm.

Bolting from his chair, Richard bowled his way through colleagues seeking his observations and advice, hoping to trap her in a cab. Hitting the door like a rugby full-back Richard came to a stop inches from the back of the Commissioner.

 

“Give her some space, Chief Inspector.” 

“ ** _Where’s she staying_**!?” Richard cried out in desperation to be with her. 

“With friends. Paris is her home also. Give her some  _space_ , Richard. Saint-Marie will be quieter for both of you.”


	4. Honorè

Crimes, especially murders, received new treatment after the conference. Thanks to funding from Interpol, the Police Nationale - Camille’s beloved the Sûreté - and SOCA, new assets became part of the retinue for completing the paperwork on each Royal Saint-Marie Police Department case.

  
Richard, now a member of SOCA - the Serious Organized Crime Agency, analyzed cases on Saint-Marie looking for connections to known identity reallocation rings and money laundering activities. Camille, by virtue of her dual degree in information assurance and cognitive psychology, performed analyses using sophisticated applications provided by the Sûreté and Interpol, though she was not above building her own application “widgets” if those provided proved cumbersome or ineffective. Where once she and Richard shared glances and conversation, Camille now sat encased in computer monitors and short racks of systems and storage. A portable air-con blew chilled air through the racks.

Camille designed the layout with willful intent.

Richard approached the porch of his shack, hopeful that he could have a meaningful conversation with Camille in the car. So far, she’d avoided any situation that left her alone with him. His return hadn’t gone well.

Two horn beeps brought Richard out running, fearing she might not stop. He needn’t have worried on that account; Fidel drove the Rover. Smiling, Fidel greeted Richard enthusiastically - leaving the car to give him a man hug.

“G’morning Fidel.” Richard courteously sent from within the hug, “Where is Sergeant Bordey?”

“She’s at the station, sir. She changed her work hours to overlap the European police agencies more easily.”

Great!, Richard sighed, now he’d have to report to work before sunrise to see her.

“It’s good to have you alive, sir.”

“Thanks, Fidel. It’s good to be alive.”

 

* * *

 

“Camille! There’s a body in the parking area near the volcanos. I’ll meet you at the -”

“Fidel! The Chief needs you. Get the Rover and meet him out front!”

 

Camille flipped the keys to Fidel and returned to typing on one of the keyboards in front of her.

 

“Sergeant Bordey, is there a reason you’re not coming?” Richard asked, his feet unconsciously taking him into the blast radius of her anger.

 

 _Uh-oh!,_  Dwayne thought,  _she’s about to blow!_

 

“Yes, Chief Inspector. You have TWO sergeants. I am completing those trend analyses you requested. Fidel is available - unless you are directing me to STOP what I’m doing and attend to yet another of your commands.”

 

Richard backed away like he’d been slapped. His expression communicated “WTF?!?” more effectively than any of his rants. Camille hadn’t blinked in over a minute, her once soft brown eyes burning away the flesh on his face.

 

“Uh, no, Sergeant. It’s just that, you know, you’re my most experienced investigator. You’re good with the witnesses -”

 

“So’s Fidel.  A lot has changed since you  **died**.”


	5. Act of God

“Chief! Stationmaster called. They’ve holding a guy from a cruise ship, say he’s got over 20 kilos of raw coca leaves. Thinks he was selling it to a lab on the island for processing and distribution back through the cruise ship. The bundles look to be half of what came in - the tape holding them together has been cut.”

Richard carefully considered Dwayne’s recap; 40 kilos of leaf would require more than a kitchen lab to produce cocaine powder or rocks before the ship left in 5 days.

 

“You have an idea where the lab is?”

 

Dwayne moved energetically towards his Chief's old desk before answering.

 

“Maybe. But I think I can shake a few bushes and see where the missing ingredients fall out. That much leaf gonna need some space to change from ‘water to wine’ - if you catch my meaning.”

“Those were my thoughts. Take Fidel and -”

“Can’t, Chief. Fidel’s on stake out with the UN Ecological Intervention team - they're trying to catch that ring stealing turtle eggs.”

 

Much as he did before his murder, Richard cursed the lack of manpower - or womanpower - available.

 

“This is dangerous, Dwayne. They’ll kill you if they catch you interfering.”

“Then I can’t let them catch me. Let me check my contacts. I’ll report back when I know something.”

 

With a sigh, Richard considered sending Camille. Half her salary came directly from France now; he didn’t control her time completely.

 

“Camille, what do you think?”

“Dwayne, do you need backup?” Camille asked without looking up from the computer displays.

 

Camille’s cavalier attitude towards her own safety had been a discussion between Dwayne and Fidel for almost a year. Last week Richard had sought Dwayne’s feedback on the alarming risks she took arresting a human trafficker in the hills of Saint-Marie. Dwayne’s self preservation instinct didn’t want Camille Bordey “helping” him - not with the possibility of violence and gunplay; Camille could get him killed.

 

“No. Just gonna have some talks with a few friends.”

“I think, Chief Inspector, that Dwayne has the case under control. You are certainly within your authority to assign me.”

 

Why did _everything_ have to be a fight with her? Three months after her return and Richard sensed no change in their interactions.

 

“N-n-no. I trust your judgment, Sergeant. Be careful, Dwayne and check in frequently so we can keep tabs on you.”

“Right, Chief!” and Dwayne bolted out the door for the motorcycle.

“Dwayne! -”, Camille yelled behind him, “heavy rains coming in. Watch what roads you take, they could be blocked or washed out.”

“Thanks, Camille. Will do.” came back as the motorcycle's engine growled to life.

 

Popping the clutch on the motorcycle, Dwayne whispered _Thank you_ to whichever god or goddess had rescued him from being with the two of them.

 _Maybe now they’ll have the fight Camille’s aiming for and get on with it,_ he thought hopefully as the motorcycle’s front wheel lifted slightly under rapid acceleration.

* * *

 

The sound of the bike echoed in the station. Richard listened closely to the radio to get information on how much rain would fall. Unlike his hurricane experience, Saint-Marie’s rain squalls demanded respect - the average storm lasted 5 to 6 days. The radio also filled the uncomfortable silences between himself and Camille since her return to Saint-Marie.

The ringing shook Richard out of his perpetual despondency over his new non-relationship with his lover.

 

“ _Inspector Poole?_ ”

“Richard Poole here.”

“ _This is Charlie Dean, the priest at St. Michael’s?_ ”

“Yes, Father Dean. How are things at the church?”

“ _My pre-reception teacher’s estranged husband is holding her and her class hostage with a gun. I... I... I don’t know how to help her. I know where this can lead..._ ”

 

Richard liked Charlie Dean. He’d become a priest to atone for contributing to the infidelity of a beautiful married woman, leading to her murder by her jealous husband. Father Dean chose to remain in the priesthood in the hills of Saint Marie in memory of his deceased lover.

 

“On my way! Father - are you there at the school?”

“ _No, I’ve been helping my parishioners with storm preparations_.”

“Right! Tell whoever’s with them to keep him talking! Camille!”

“Yes, Inspector?”

 

He barely stopped the sigh or the argument about to explode. Mostly concentrating on the hostage situation they were rapidly heading towards, the estranged male half of whatever they were _still_ managed to engrave a mental note on the granite To-Do list in his head: Deal with Camille SOON.

 

“That was Father Dean. The estranged husband of one of his teachers is in a classroom threatening to kill her and the children in her class.”

 

Camille’s expression change from controlled respect to surprise to intent eliminated the need to ask her to back him up on this case. 

Slipping into the back room, NPF's agent on Saint-Marie changed clothes in anticipation of the coming storm. Richard never respected the weather on Saint-Marie  _before_ he died; she doubted that had changed and wanted to be ready for wherever they got stranded. Boots and socks replaced stockingless flats; hiking shorts and shirt with a t-shirt under became the uniform of the day. The baseball cap would keep the worst of the rain out of her eyes. Stowing her other clothes in a drawer, Camille strode rapidly to the weapons case.

Unlocking the protective case had her favorite Verne-Carron version of the Walthers PK380 off of its storage shelf quickly. Richard’s jaw dropped at the speed with which she removed the weapon and its trigger guard, slammed in a loaded clip and snatched five more multi-bullet cartridges from the shelf. A second later the targeting laser slipped into place.

 

“Will you require a pistol, sir?” she asked as if they hadn’t ever been closer than they were standing now, that they hadn’t sweated out their first romantic weeks together waiting to see if she’d conceived after two contraceptive failures.

“Uh, no Sergeant. You’re far more skilled in that department.” he replied, shaking himself from the mental isolation their recent interactions always placed him in. 

 

With no assistance from his "partner", he fought his way into his suit jacket. Yanking his desk drawer until it nearly ejected its contents, the former beat-walking copper grabbed a short obsidian stick, clicking it onto his belt through some invisible mechanism. 

 

“Let’s -”

 

Recognizing the sound of the Rover starting up, he realized he was about to speak to an empty room. Seizing his brief case from the desktop, the Chief of Police made haste to the waiting police vehicle while snapping his valise closed.

 

* * *

 

Careening up the hills’ dangerous and partially paved roads unsettled Richard’s stomach, giving him a rather “green around the gills” paleness Camille couldn’t miss. A self-satisfied grin flashed across her face. 

To calm his gastrointestinal track during the ride, his attention noted the preparations for the storm. Consideration of the weather’s impact on Saint-Marie’s poorest citizens distracted him from his alarm at the breakneck speed and questionable driving choices Camille executed with the Rover.  

When he’d arrived on the island, the provincial Brit shared the common misperception that Caribbean islands experienced hurricane after hurricane during the season. He’d been woefully misinformed: what Saint-Marie and other Caribbean isles did suffer where rain storms of mythic proportion. Days and days of torrential downpours affected entire sections of the Caribbean basin as effectively as any hurricane. 

Saint-Marie sat in the dead center of the coming storm; predictions were for six to eight days of rain averaging eight to ten inches per day. The smug thought that he remained rational in his use of English measurements rather than those unnecessary French metric ones provided an additional distraction until Camille hit a huge hole and nearly pitched the Rover over the side of the one-vehicle-wide hillside road. Willing the Rover to defy physics, she fought the steering wheel and kept the four-wheel-drive truck climbing steadily towards the school.

 

A queasy DI appreciated his sergeant's choice of route - if not her driving style - when they slid into the parking area of the school still in one piece. 

 

* * *

Fidel’s nerves refused to tolerate anymore of the slow, weather-ignorant behavior by the United Nation’s (UN) interdiction team. Despite his and the university’s warnings about the amount of rain coming, here they all were, out on a cay, waiting for black market smugglers who had better sense than to chase turtles who were well out to sea avoiding the storm.

The worried husband and father had been placing calls to Juliet for hours without success. Mobile services were the first to go during tropical rainstorms. Rain attenuation - the diffraction of the signals coming into the tower-mounted antennas from the tiny phone antennas - wiped out signal strength in storms of this size. On Saint-Marie, towers always fought the additional challenge of shifting ground: many of the hillside towers were not installed into bedrock and so became useless when the ground underneath them shimmied.

An hour after his last bout of frayed nerves he got the call which could mean the end of his law enforcement career - his mother-in-law got through to say she’d made it to Father Dean’s shelter at Notre Dame without Juliet and Rosie. 

 

When he’d left the house for work that morning it was with the understanding that his family would leave immediately after him for the shelter. While their house’s construction rivaled the best on the island, the land they’d built on suffered mudslides frequently enough that the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers had built a retaining wall on the property’s high hillside in the 1940's.

Days ago an engineer from the UN team of experts had kindly inspected cracks in the wall and informed them that, due to repeated assaults from the dirt above them and the cracks already evident in the wall, the wall might be incapable of handling the amount of water predicted from this storm.

A resolute junior sergeant stayed only minutes longer after his mother-in-law’s call. Without explanation he left the group and opened the door to the smallest of the UN vehicles, started the engine with the key always left in the ignition (in direct disobedience of Fidel’s warnings) and sped off the cay towards Honorè and up into the hills to save his family.

________________________________

 

Thanks to the increasing rain, Dwayne’s favorite hangouts for shaking information loose from lying perps closed early to prepare for the rain. He’d scored a number of free drinks but no useful information regarding the processing of the 20 kilos of missing coca plants.

The rain showered this part of the island in a manner indicating they hadn’t seen bad yet, but it was on schedule to arrive in Saint-Marie. The coca processors wouldn’t be bothered by a little rain - or a lot; once processed, the resulting crack and powder would be worth millions in Europe or the U.S.

Dwayne decided that he had time to check a few more information hotspots further up the mountain before the water and mud would force him back to Saint-Marie. He hoped that the Chief and Camille were at the station as Dwayne had relatives who would need assistance getting to a safe shelter and he didn’t relish telling family that he was stuck at the station when they needed him.

 

Popping the clutch as he gunned the throttle, the wizened "old schooler" wondered if the station still existed, given the heat coming off Camille towards the Chief when he'd left them and their issues in Honorè Station.

 

* * *

 

Three shabby block buildings housed the nine classrooms and office of the little church school in the mountains that served the children of Saint-Marie’s poor.

 

“Quickly Inspector!” the Headmistress called, “They’re in the first classroom on the left!”

“I’ve got this, sir!” Camille called out to him as she removed the pistol from her waist holster. She had the sense not to take the safety off with children at risk. The bouncing red dot told him she’d activated the laser sight. The former deep cover agent, no amateur in deep cover work, transitioned easily into SWAT mode; she intended to take the kidnapper out. He lost sight of her seconds after hearing her shouted intent.

 

Richard’s memory told him Camille’s kevlar bullet-resistant vest still hung in the station. In his haste to leave he’d registered the puzzling fact without rectifying the situation. The vest was easily distinguished - it was two sizes smaller than the men’s version.

 

“Sister, can you tell me what happened?” Richard inquired, torn between getting the facts and restraining Camille.

“We were about to dismiss the classes when he came to the office. We’re so sorry, Inspector, had we known we would never -”

“I understand, Sister, but it’s imperative that you give me the details as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, yes,” the Sister acknowledged, regaining some composure before speaking again, "Xavier said he had the divorce papers, that he needed Winifred’s signature. He seemed so calm, almost like the old Xavier before all this trouble happened between them. It wasn’t until dismissal was almost over that we realized Winnie’s class hadn’t come out.”

 

“What about Winifred -”

“De Mourney. Xavier and Winifred de Mourney”

“Where are her students now?”

“Xavier let them go three or four at a time...” she answered.

 

Her statement told Richard that some price had been paid to get those children freed.

 

“Sister? We’re running out of time.”

“Xavier released the other children after we sent his children into the classroom. The family is in there together - Winnie, Xavier and their three boys. They all attend school here. He told us to leave and prepare for the storm. He told us...”

 

Richard witnessed the nun's visible struggle to remain in control, to avoid being consumed with guilt at trading one large group of children for a much smaller but still precious group.

 

“He told us his family would be together when the storm came.”

“Thank you!”

 

And with that last courtesy, Richard ran to update Camille and make sure her recent disregard for her own well-being didn’t cost five other people their lives.

When he finally located her he’d had to climb a leaning ladder to the slanted roof of the largest classroom hut. Camille lay prone, the laser sight turned off as she squiggled into a comfortable position to take the shot.

 

“Camille!” he called from the ladder, making sure to be heard over the sprinkling rain and slight winds starting to pelt them.

 

The call had the desired effect: Xavier looked up through the window and spotted Richard standing in full view on the ladder leaning on the adjacent building. The window shade in the classroom dropped at a record pace, obscuring her shot.

Camille rounded on her superior officer, charging to within a few inches of his position before railing at him.

 

“ _ **Have you lost your mind!?**_ What did SOCA **teach you**!? **There are SCHOOL CHILDREN in there!** I should shoot you  ** _myself_**!”

 

Reflex caused her to flick the laser sight on; the red dot bounced unevenly across the front of his suit. Richard ascended the final ladder rungs to the roof to confront her.

 

“ ** _NEVER_**  do that to a sniper. You’re fortunate the kidnapper didn’t pick you off!  **UGH**!” she groaned, brandishing the pistol scarily, the barrel swinging back and forth in front of his chest. The weapon waved in and out of his sight line, defeating Richard's efforts to confirm that the safety was still engaged. 

 

Reholstering her VC-380, Camille glared at him for seconds more before making her way around him onto the ladder and back to the ground. He followed, bellowing at her to get her attention.

 

“ **Sergeant Bordey!** You’re missing  critical information here!”

 

Her crouching dash towards another vantage point stopped behind a concrete trellis that afforded cover. When he finally caught up with her, Camille grabbed a handful of his shirt to pull him behind the wall; he’d jogged in the open across the courtyard.

 

“ _Why aren’t you DEAD yet_!? You’re stupid enough to be! Oh, I forgot - **you ARE dead**. Start thinking like a police officer or you’ll find yourself back in Croydon with sincerest regrets - _**do you understand me, Inspector!?**_ ”

 

He’d seen her angry but not like this. When he’d departed Saint-Marie she’d been volatile; now she bordered on murderous.

 

“Sergeant - those are  _his_  children in there; he let the others go. He probably plans on killing them all and himself afterwards. Apparently they’re in the middle of a messy divorce.”

“They’re scared to death of him - he’s holding them at gunpoint! Those babies have already lost their father!”

 

The use of “babies” instead of “children” made the list of Camille’s unusual behaviors for today.

 

“We need to talk him out of there. Now.” Richard commanded quietly.

 

Camille stared far longer than respect allowed but she reholstered her pistol again and nodded for him to lead.

To her surprise, Richard extended his hand, palm upward, silently requesting her weapon.

 

“No child will be killed by a member of the Saint-Marie police force while I am Chief.”

 

With a huff, Camille handed him the holstered pistol.

 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,  _Inspector._ ”

 

 _So do I, Camille,_  Richard thought. Stowing her pistol in his suit pocket, Richard stepped back into the open.

 

* * *

 

“Xavier de Mourney?” Richard called, “This is Richard Poole! I’m coming in to talk to you. I’m bringing Camille Bordey with me. Is that alright, Mr. de Mourney?”

“I know you, Inspector, you’re a good man! Folks mourned your passing. But this is my family and my business. **Go back to your station**!”

“ **Inspector! Please take my childr-** _**AHHHH**_!”

 

Camille sprinted for the hut at the crack of Xavier’s backhand across Winifred’s face and the sound of Winifred’s scream of pain. From inside the room Camille heard the current version of a conflict she knew had been repeated many times in front of the children. She’d lived it herself with Catherine and the man she used to call “Pa-pa”.

 

“You’ll not call to another man while I’m here, _whore_!”

“Why do you think I run around on you!? With three children at home!? Someone has to take care of them with you snortin’ cocaine and cookin’ meth all the time!”

“I’m usin’ nothing!  **Nothing** , woman! I’m tryin’ to make a way for you and my kids while you’re runnin’ the streets with -”

 

Both adults were startled when Camille kicked the door in. Scanning the room, she hustled over to the children, speaking softly.

 

“Winifred,” Camille addressed the other woman, “Let me take the babies away from here.”

“No one takes my children!” Xavier informed Camille in a low voice.

“You going to shoot them - and me - too?” Camille barked at Xavier.

 

Richard flew through the door in time to see a surreally frightening scene. Handing the baby to Winifred, Camille walked, smiling fearlessly, directly into the path any bullet fired would take.

 

“Camille, don’t do this...” Richard warned, “Follow procedure...”

“Inspector, please take Winifred and the babies outside. Xavier and I have things to discuss.”

 

Xavier de Mourney had no intentions of letting anyone out the door.

 

“Camille, I got no issue with you. Your mother’s been good to my family but I will **shoot** you. My family **stays** **here**.”

 

The fearless officer stepped towards Xavier until his gun’s barrel rested against her midsection.

 

“Camille, please step away...” Richard rolled out to her as a warning. 

“Take Winifred and the babies, Inspector. Xavier and I are just going to talk.”

 

Conflicted, adrenaline controlled Richard’s feet and body past his terror at Camille’s brazen ploy. Grabbing two of the children, Richard shielded them and their mother with his body and led them out of the classroom. The rain came down steadily now, not a downpour but a continuous shower that made the normal humidity on the island more oppressive.

 

“ **Stop there, Inspector! She’ll not leave with another man!** ” Xavier shouted.

 

Camille anticipated Xavier, sliding sideways with the pistol to block clear access to his family.

 

“It’s just you and me Xavier.”

 

The despair in Xavier de Mourney’s next statement ran down his face in a steady stream.

 

“There’s no _jobs_ on this island, Camille. I got three kids. They get hungry, they need their daddy to feed them!”

“I know, Xavier. You’re a good father. My father didn't step up to that responsibility. But I can’t let you hurt Winifred. I won’t let another good woman be hurt. You don’t want her or your babies to see either of you hurt or killed. Don’t leave them, Xavier...,” Camille told him, making sure to keep eye contact.

 

Eyes misting then tearing, Xavier ignored the wetness flowing down his cheeks and onto the floor at his feet.

 

“That **MAN**! Him come to my house when I’m away workin’. Him give her money. Give candy to my kids. I’m their daddy. Him have no right... No right to give them candy! I’m their daddy... I give them candy!”

“Storm’s coming, Xavier. We need to get your family safely -” Camille reminded him.

 

The distraught husband and father cut her off. 

 

“I’ll not give her up!  _He can’t have her_!”

 

* * *

 

The inability of the wipers to clear the front glass of rain created anxiety Fidel hadn’t experienced since he got the call that Juliet was in labor with Rosie. The stars aligned for him that day - the murderer Aidan Miles was in hand, they were in La Kaz near the station, Camille handled the Chief so Dwayne got to use the Rover and the weather had cooperated.

None of the above could be said of his present effort except there wasn’t a murderer awaiting arrest. Driving like Dwayne, Fidel shot through Honorè - without stopping at the station - as fast as he’d ever driven. 

Since returning from France, Camille’s shapely bottom stayed anchored to her seat in front of those displays. Any investigation involving the Chief got passed to Fidel. Fidel didn’t mind; he’d learned more working directly with the Chief than he would in a decade of performing forensics from his desk in the station.

Fidel noticed the Rover’s absence from its customary parking spot and relaxed; there was no way Camille and the Chief would work a case together; they hadn’t even decided if they were still a couple again.

 

________________________________ 

 

The first indicator that local conditions had deteriorated was the radio. Dwayne tried for over an hour to reach Camille at the station, then the Chief and finally Fidel; the radio silence was deafening. Not one to brood over other peoples decisions or actions, Dwayne took the radio silence as tacit permission to help his family on this side of the hills then return to the station in his own good time.

Climbing the hill roads and transferring relatives and their belongings to more secure locations with the motorcycle, Dwayne considered removing the sidecar to improve the handling of the bike. The sidecar floor panel had more holes than their last murder victim’s head but still took on water, making Dwayne’s ability to control the bike increasingly dicey. He’d have to wait, though, until he got back to Honorè as the sidecar provided his only method for passenger and cargo delivery.

After he spun the bike unexpectedly for the third time, Dwayne modified his usual driving style. Slowing his normal speeds he finished his errands for family with the transportation of his grand-nephews to Father Dean’s shelter at the Noter Dame’s gymnasium; he would leave the sidecar there and return to the station with just the bike - lighter and more agile.

 

* * *

Richard reentered the room, overhearing Xavier’s words to Camille. 

 

“It’s good the Chief’s back, Camille. You know what’s it’s like to lose somethin’ you love so much. You know what that hurt is like - I saw you... 

“I can’t do this... They’re my life, Camille! And Winifred goin’ to divorce me!? I can’t lose her... I can’t live without them...”

 

“XAVIER,  **NO**!” Camille shouted and launched herself at the distressed husband and father as he turned the gun on himself.

 

Richard would have screamed her name and run to check to her condition if she hadn't risen on her own. Blood seeped through the side of Xavier de Mourney’s shirt. The wound was serious but not life-threatening with medical attention; Camille’s quick action deflected the gun away from de Mourney’s vital organs.

 

“Help me!” Camille yelled at the statue Richard who stood nearby processing his relief. Blinking rapidly, he ran to Xavier de Mourney’s side opposite Camille and tugged with her to get him on his feet.

 

Struggling and stumbling they got the distraught kidnapper into the Rover.

 

“We won’t all fit!” Richard yelled over the pouring rain. 

“Yes we will!” she yelled back.

 

Together they loaded Winifred next to her husband and the children after.

 

“Inspector! The road to the hospital will be congested now that the storm’s here. The convent clinic will be faster. Climb in!”

 

Another high-speed ride ensued over the mostly paved road between the school and the convent. 

Richard and Winifred wrestled a disoriented Xavier out of the Rover and into the convent. Recognizing the police vehicle, nuns ran out to the Rover to assist.  Camille escorted the children into the convent visitors’ area and sat with them huddled in her lap and under her arms.

 

Xavier de Mourney would survive.

 

* * *

 

 

The de Mourney children settled as the nuns served them small sandwiches and cool water. Exhausted, they snuggled into Camille as tightly as possible, thankful for her solid warmth. 

 

“I don’t want my  _pa-pa_  in jail!” a crying child wailed. 

“Sh-sh-sh... Chou, sometimes the people we love the most do things that hurt us the most. I’m sure you father is sorry for what happened today but we can’t change what he did. We’ll just have to be patient and -”

 

She stopped talking when the echo of Richard’s footsteps preceded him.

 

“Winifred would like her children now.” Richard announced. 

“Bon. Go with the Inspector. Be loving to your mother; she’s been through a lot today.”

 

With hugs for each child, Camille stood. Transferring the youngest into Richard’s arms, she gently tucked two little hands into each of Richard’s pants’ pockets and watched them as they made their way down the hall. When they passed through the clinic doors, Camille made her way outside in the opposite direction. 

From the veranda of the convent, Camille looked southeast to track the storm’s path. The torrential rain would hit the mountains before hitting the sheltered cove Honorè sat within. Hurricanes came and went but tropical rain storms often stalled over Saint-Marie - thanks to its placement in the Caribbean basin - and dumped rains of biblical proportions on the island. 

Rather than wait for him to reach her, Camille met Richard halfway up the hallway. Decisions needed to be made and she had no intentions of directly challenging his authority again today. She’d already snapped when he interfered with her setup to take out the kidnapper. 

Still, having been undercover for almost a year, Richard should have been well versed in the proper hostage procedure when babies are involved and he should  _never_  have revealed her vantage point. Better that she die, in her thinking, than the babies die; babies should never die. Richard would confront her on her procedural choice, possibly writing her a reprimand, but she didn’t care anymore. 

 

She’d learned from Richard’s death that the end justifies the means.

 

* * *

 

Fidel skidded into the flower bed around the school’s car park. Jam packed with cars, he could only pull in near the center plantings. The satellite phone in the car screamed with the indignant protests of the UN team leader demanding Fidel return their car. Fidel ignored them; he’d been careful to take the smallest - and emptiest - vehicle. He knew they’d had no trouble getting the remaining team members and their equipment into the trucks and back to the hotel. 

There’d be hell to pay when the Chief found out but Fidel stood ready to resign if that’s what it took; surely the Chief understood what family meant after being  _dead_  and away from Camille.

Running into the gymnasium he’d spent his school years taking classes in, Fidel found his mother-in-law and Father Dean together.

 

“Is she here!?” he huffed out.

“No! I can’t reach her!”

“Phones are out all over the island. It’s pretty bad out there - that little UN runabout barely stayed on the road. I’ve got to go get them."

 

Fidel recognized he might have to return to the station, but that choice could wait until he had his family together in the runabout. He'd prefer to stay at the shelter with his family.

 

"Were you headed back to Honorè?" the pastor asked.

"No - it's bad out there, Father."

“Fidel - the Chief and Camille are up at the hill school handling a hostage situation. Bring Juliet and Rosie here before you go back to the station.” Father Dean recommended.

 

Fidel cursed today’s luck. He’d have to return to the station to help Dwayne babysit during the storms. He could be gone 5 or 6 days.

 

Nodding to the priest, Fidel sprinted back to the car through the downpour.

 ____________________________

 

Dwayne nearly rear-ended a car parked sideways near the entrance to Noter Dame School. The full parking lot confirmed for Dwayne that most of the hill people had taken Father Dean’s invitation to hunker down somewhere solid. Dwayne smelled the stews and grills set up in the other classrooms. Saint-Marie fed multitudes with ease, calling on survival skills dating back to slavery times.

Pushing the mischievous boys in front of him, Dwayne kept hold of their soaked collars until he handed them over to their grateful mother in the school’s gymnasium. He'd had to dig them out of the sidecar - one head down and the other face up on the floor. Experiences like this reminded him why he remained a bachelor, an unmarried man with no children.... to speak of.

 

Kissing his cousin stayed his exit sufficiently for Father Dean and Fidel’s mother-in-law to spot him.

 

“Have you seen Fidel?”

“No - I came down the old plantation work road. Dropping Patrice’s two young hellions off. Something wrong?”

“Juliet should have been here hours ago with Rosie. Fidel’s on his way to retrieve them.” Father Dean filled in.

“Dwayne, those engineers say the yard wall won’t hold. Somethin’s wrong, my bones tell me my baby’s in trouble.”

“Which way did he go?”

“I’m not sure,” Father Dean considered, “but he said he was driving a small UN car - not the Rover or a 4-wheel drive.”

 

“He’ll have to take the new road - it’s paved.  I’ll retrieve them.

"Father! Any mechanics here? I need that sidecar off in a hurry!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Inspector, I think we should shelter here at the convent. The storm’s pretty broad and it’s moving.” Camille proposed.

“We can’t stay if there’s no one at the station. What if there’s an emergency? We’re unreachable here. 

“Have you tried Dwayne or Fidel?”

 

Camille slapped herself mentally - she should have done that first.

 

“No, sir.” she answered quietly.

“Well, then, ring them. Let’s give it 20 minutes. If no one answers at the station then we’ll have to make our way back to Honorè as rapidly as possible.”

“Where will you be, sir?”

“I’m not  _going_ anywhere, Sergeant. I’ll be in the visitor’s area. With you.”

“Yes, sir.” Camille replied, sounding like a child who wakes up Christmas morning and finds Père Noël left nothing but school books, underwear and socks instead of toys and candy. 

 

With a sigh she’d meant to keep to herself - but didn’t, Camille retrieved the hand-held radio from the Rover and called Fidel and Dwayne every three minutes, alternating with her cell until its battery died.

 

“No answer, sir.” Camille reported as if Richard hadn’t been parked beside her during her efforts to reach the rest of the team.

“I can call the Commissioner.” she offered.

“No!” he barked. Richard had no intentions of letting his boss discover the empty station. 

 

Even though he’d prefer a good old Camille-vs-Richard bicker-fest over this new sterile communications style, Richard’s decision had been made 20 minutes earlier.

 

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

“Sir, the main roads will be nearly impassible now. The hill people are poor; they’re trying to get to relatives’ houses that won’t be at risk from mud slides and flooding. They’ll clog the roads, carrying every valuable item they can.”

“Can we make it back to the school?” he asked, hoping to get closer to his unmanned police station.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir. Like most of the hill buildings, they’re sitting on dirt with no foundation in the earth. There’s no drainage system up there either. When the ground gets saturated, if it isn’t already, that mud will move and take those buildings with it. 

“We should stay.” she insisted. 

“Can’t be helped, Sergeant; we need to get back to the station. I have faith you can get us off this hill without killing us.” 

“I don’t. Allez.”

 

Rain pelted Camille as she sprinted to the Rover at top speed. Richard’s death left her with tons of time and rage. Camille took these unwanted companions to the gym, running and punching them into submission hour after hour - fatiguing herself to exhaustion so that she could sleep without crying. Exercise eventually replaced the [escitalopram](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Escitalopram) mood elevator she’d been prescribed; she’d never been compliant in taking it.

Richard, by contrast, seemed in worse shape than when he died. The conditioning and vigor he’d slaved to attain before the mission had given way during his 4-moth debrief time with SOCA in London and his three-month shunning by Camille on Saint-Marie. Months of work-related sitting marathons had robbed him of his former fitness. 

Both officers realized this as Richard dragged himself into the Rover, chest heaving from the jogger’s pace he’d tried to maintain to keep somewhat dry. He’d failed miserably, his blazer and oxford shirt already soaked through. 

 

Camille silently wondered how he’d had the energy to help with Xavier.

 

Richard silently wondered if she understood how keeping her safe motivated him beyond his normal abilities.

 

* * *

 

Faster than Richard preferred but slower than Camille desired, she picked their way down the hillside towards Honorè. Kilometer by kilometer and curve by curve the road conditions deteriorated faster than they made progress. 

Frequently they stopped to help families struggling with packs and wheelbarrows, trying to get just slightly further downhill to a relative’s house. Such assistance cost them an hour or more as they backtracked up and down the hill.

By the time the road’s travelers had been duly delivered to safe havens the showers became waterfalls, rain falling with such velocity that it bruised the skin on impact. Camille rolled the windows up in the Rover and instructed Richard to keep the glass free of condensation. 

Richard’s attempts to do so were marred by his seat restraints and the fractious ride within the Rover as Camille bounded over slick hill roads. He could do little about Camille’s driving but he could improve his reach; Richard released his restraint and wiped the glass as frequently as possible. It wasn’t enough; he couldn’t keep the glass clear which contributed to their near accident and his injury.

 

The tree materialized in their path out of nowhere, causing Camille to swerve on a road with no second lane and no usable shoulder. 

 

Camille fought the Rover, refusing to let it flip or fall down the hillside. Ploughing through brush and scrub, she allowed herself only small vocalizations while she wrested control of the truck from the elements and road surfaces around her. 

Skidding and sliding sideways, Camille turned the truck onto a side road and began to regain control when they hydroplaned. 

A gentle mountain stream had become a raging cascade -  overrunning the quaint bridge. Flooding lifted the Rover’s tires from the mud-slick surface and spun the vehicle wildly. With a calm Richard marveled at, Camille continued to fight the truck, downshifting and flooring the gas pedal the first moment she felt traction. This manoeuver finally got them to semi-solid ground. Slammed hard into the dash and the door during the ride, Richard righted himself gingerly when she stopped the truck. 

Richard said nothing when Camille exited the vehicle, standing off a few feet with her head turning while she got soaked. Re-entering the truck, she apprised him of their situation, ignoring his continued silence.

 

“There’s a tree down further ahead. I don’t think I can get us back across that bridge. I’m going to take us up there -” and she pointed upward through the glass to a dark region of the hillside clouded by the returning condensation.

“There’s a place where we can shelter.”

 

Richard’s nodded assent annoyed her. 

She’d just saved their asses with driving worthy of a Gran Prix championship and he continued to sulk. Shaking with adrenaline from the driving conditions and from close quarters with Richard, Camille put the Rover in gear, turned the wheels uphill at a angle and picked her way slowly to the black splotch he could just make out through the foggy windows.

Rocking the Rover back and forth repeatedly until it sheltered the entrance, Camille finally sighed and lowered her head to lay on arms crossed over on the steering wheel. Tears leaked out and down her arms but Richard understood her stress and had better sense than to interfere. When she opened her door he tussled with and eventually opened his.

She’d parked the Rover under a rocky overhang across the opening to a large, dark cave.

 

 


	6. Reconciliation

**_Rainstorm_ **

 

“Inspector, we need to get the emergency supplies into the cave! Headlamps are in the glove box. Grab the petrol can and take it in then collect as many small pieces of wood as you can carry. We need a fire.”

 

Camille ran to to rear of the Rover, throwing open the lift-gate and tugging on red bags stowed in the rear compartment and under the rear seats. These she hustled into the cave despite their bulk and unwieldy shapes. This action got repeated four times before she moved on to the next activity.

Snatching a small brown canister from one of the bags, Camille jammed the plug into the auxiliary power jack on the Rover’s dash, started the Rover and stretched the the cord as far into the cave as possible. The compact pump would inflate the full-sized air mattress.

Opening the rain-shielded middle door on the Rover, Camille fumbled under the driver’s side middle seat and removed two small cases of Meals Ready to Eat (MREs). Each case held 24 meals each in their own heating pouch. Leaning in further, she rummaged under the other seat and found the water catchment system and the multi-roll duct tape pack. 

Using the Rover’s antenna for support, the catchment system would funnel rainwater into a collapsible storage container for drinking and washing; the kit contained a pump-style filter as well as purification tablets. Before returning to the cave she dumped the bucket used to collect miscellaneous tools and set it in the rain; she’d clean it out with rain water and use it for their dishes.

 

A hurricane spent eating crisps with Richard motivated Camille to prepare the station and the Rover for Caribbean weather realities. That preparation was paying off now. Transferring the emergency equipment and supplies into the cave, she smiled sadly at the memory of spending her first night with Richard at the university weather center sleeping platonically.

 

Camille rounded the back of the Rover again to retrieve the shelter and bedding when she heard his yell.

 

* * *

 

 

With so much to do, Richard hadn’t bothered her about his injuries. During one of those spins or braking manoeuvers he’d been twisted and thrown against the dashboard with his restraint removed; keeping her sight-line clear had proven impossible with the belt secured at the speeds she drove. He suspected his shoulder was dislocated but their immediate needs took precedent over his painfully useless shoulder. Carrying the petrol can from the rear of the Rover into the cave nearly undid him.

Ignoring the pain, Richard had managed to transport several armloads of small wood pieces back into the cave in spite of his injury. Having amassed a considerable pile of kindling twigs and starter branches, he began to focus on collecting larger pieces that would burn longer. 

Richard found that he could tolerate the agony the wood’s weight caused by trapping his injured arm inside the front of his shirt, creating a sling of sorts. He’d abandoned his suit jacket first thing once he was out of her sight; taking the jacket off required closed eyes and a jaw locked to prevent screaming out loud. Richard would not indulge self-pity after her masterful - if life-shortening - handling of the Rover.

His fourth trip with large logs presented a challenge beyond his one-armed, leather-shoed ability to manage. Deteriorating ground conditions made his path back to the cave slicker than it had been. Richard picked his way carefully but with one arm consumed by heavy wood and the other effectively pinned to his chest, he had no help balancing when the wet ground gave way.

 

Camille heard his yell which ended abruptly.

______________________________ 

 

Throwing her armload of equipment into the cave she bounded towards the sound, picking her way like a mountain goat. Dressed in hiking shorts and boots, the mud slowed her but did not undermine her progress as it had Richard’s.

The scattered wood gave her location information that saved his life. Blinking to clear her eyes of the rain that got under her baseball cap, all she spotted was a leather shoe sticking out of a pile of mud.

 

“Richard! RICHARD!” Camille screamed as she clambered through the trees and mud to reach him. 

 

Her headlong descent hadn’t taken more than minutes; Richard’s entire upper half lay buried in soft mud. He was suffocating in front of her.

Snatching good-sized branches Camille fell to her knees near his foot and began to dig where she reasoned his head might be. Le Bon Dieu’s infinite mercy where Richard Poole was concerned continued unabated as his head came clear only inches from the surface of the mud. 

As soon as the rain hit the side of his face, he gasped - sucking mud into his mouth which Camille had to clear before he choked to death.

 

“Lie still! Let me get your head free!” she screamed at him. Camille’s concerns accelerated her actions; if the mud hole his head lay in filled with water, he’d drown instead of suffocating in mud. 

 

Crawling to keep her balance, she appropriated a few fallen palm fronds and laid them over the hole to slow the collection of water then resumed digging his shoulders and torso out of the mud.

Heavier rain helped her efforts as it washed the piles of removed mud away from him. The weight of water did necessitate stopping every so often to bail out the hole where his head still lay. Being Camille, she let the mental notion surface that if she’d argued more vigorously with him they’d be dry and safe at the convent right now. But little anger or heat accompanied the thought as she kept digging.

The first indication that something was wrong occurred when most of him lay under a thin layer of mud. Richard could not support his own weight on his arms. Tugging and pulling - notwitstanding her slick grip - she finally got him upright only to have him bend over and start recollecting the scattered wood.

His embarrassment at needing to be rescued shone like a beacon. With no time to waste in getting the shelter setup, she assisted him by collecting some pieces herself then followed him closely as they made their way back to the cave.

 

Drained from the experience, Richard leant against the cave entrance to catch his breath. As Camille passed him she heard his whispered “Thank you, Camille.” but did not acknowledge it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Pulling up to the house, Dwayne spotted the first problem: The Best family’s scooter lay in the rain unused. As Fidel sprinted towards the house, Dwayne headed towards the scooter, hoping to get it started.

Working on the scooter, Dwayne’s weather sense - trained by life in the Caribbean - warned him that the increased darkness equaled an increased intensity of the storm. Alert to the challenges, he reacted immediately to Fidel yelling for help. Running as fast as his well-used body would allow, Dwayne hurried through the front door. Staring in shock, he stopped as the oozing wall of mud made its way into the house through the rear doors and windows; the retaining wall had given way as predicted by the kindly UN scientist.

Scanning with eyes and ears, Dwayne spotted Fidel with his feet dangling from the stairs leading to the roof. Juliet had bundled Rosie up and scrambled up the stairs when the wall collapsed. Sprinting at his top speed (which would be jogging for a younger officer), Dwayne crowded Fidel on the ladder, yelling up to his colleague for more information.

Information came immediately back in the form of Rosie, crying loudly and dripping wet. Desperate to get to high ground, Juliet covered the child in clothing and climbed the access stairs to the roof when the wall lost its battle with the mud. Dwayne backed down the ladder to give Fidel room for himself and his wife to come down.  Not wasting a minute, Dwayne exited the house to the portico in the front.

 

“Rosie, girl. Don’t cry, now. Uncle Dwayne won’t let anything happen to you. Here! Stick your hand out -” and he took her little hand in his, extending it into the falling rain, “See there? It’s just water, like in the tub.”

 

Rosie frowned, the splitting image of her father, then buried her face into Dwayne’s wet shirt and cried louder. Having exhausted his toolkit of rain-is-fun statements, Dwayne moved carefully under the overhang away from the house.  Behind him he heard Fidel soothing Juliet who sounded a great deal like Rosie at the moment.

 

“Fidel! You need to get your family to the shelter.” Dwayne shouted over the noise of the rain hitting the metal roof of the portico.

“I know. But Juliet said the scooter won’t start. We can’t all get back on the motorcycle -”

 

Creaking and groaning from the rear wall of his house interrupted Fidel’s pronouncement of the obvious.

 

“Take off your belt!” Dwayne commanded Fidel, mimicking Fidel’s motions.

“Come!”

 

Dwayne led the family to the motorcycle, taking the belt from Fidel as they walked.

 

“Get on, Fidel!”

“What are -”

“You want to discuss this or get these ladies down the hill? Get on with ya!”

 

Fidel straddled the motorcycle; Dwayne handed Rosie to him.

 

“Hug Rosie to your chest!”

 

With Rosie flush against Fidel, Dwayne snaked first one then the other belt around them both and fastened it on Fidel’s side.”

 

“Climb on, Juliet, and hold on! Hurry, girl!”

 

Frightened from the mud, Juliet blindly followed Dwayne's instruction, his hands guiding the poor, shaken women.

 

“Alright. Be careful when you get to that tree - walk the bike through those branches so Rosie doesn’t take any scratches -”

“Dwayne! The house isn’t safe! You can’t stay here! You take them down -”

 

The fear in Juliet’s eyes could not be mistaken. She’d held on waiting for Fidel to rescue them. Dwayne doubted her willingness to leave him on the mountain with their crumbling home. Smiling despite the water pouring down his face, he placed the helmet on Rosie and fastened it as tightly as possible.

 

“Go now! Your family’s worried for you! I’ll make it down on my own. Now, boy!”

 

With a quick kiss to Rosie’s helmeted head and a squeeze to Juliet’s shaking hands hugging Fidel, Dwayne slapped Fidel’s head playfully and walked back towards the house. Turning only long enough to make sure Fidel had pulled off, he began to rummage through to portico and shed. 

 

Dwayne had no intentions of being buried under that mud in Fidel’s back garden.

 

* * *

 

Flicking the switch on her headlamp, Camille began directing their efforts. They were soaked, muddy and working in a cave almost 25 degrees-F cooler inside than outside, so she prioritized shelter and heat. Assigning herself the job of erecting the tent and getting the bedding laid out, she tasked Richard with getting the fire started.

Before starting, Camille exited the cave and stood in the rain, letting it wash the bulk of the mud and fear off of her. She re-entered the cave when the adrenaline shakes subsided and began assembling the tent.

 

“Which direction is the cave vented?” he asked her in an unusually soft voice.

 

He’d surprised her with that knowledge; most non-campers didn’t know to orient the fire so they wouldn’t die from smoke inhalation.

The resurrected Richard Poole was still a truly brilliant man.

 

“Shine your headlamp on that water pooling on the wall. That’s directly under the vent. We’re high side of that pool and can use that water for drinking and cooking after we filter it. So don’t worry about that pool - just get that fire started; use the petrol in the can if you need to.” Camille told him more gently than they’d spoken since his resurrection.

 

Each worked silently at their appointed task. Camille detached the air pump from the inflated mattress and stored the apparatus back in the Rover where it could be easily located; she turned the  truck off to conserve fuel and the battery. Back in the cave she continued assembling their shelter and bedding, rearranging supplies and expendables to create a bivouac outside the tent flap.

 

“Where are the dry matches?” 

 

Richard's voice drifted over so quietly Camille nearly missed his words.

 

“What do you need? Richard, are you alright? I can barely hear you.”

 

Camille didn’t see his smile; Richard hadn’t heard his given name come from her lips since before the reunion where he died. A head buried in mud prevented his hearing her earlier as she scrambled to save him.

 

“Just. A bit. Tired,” he metered out to her, “Camille. Where are. The dry. Matches?”

 

Taking a moment, Camille tossed the fire starting kit over to him from one of the big bags without looking at him. Grunting his thanks, Richard slowly retrieved the bag and returned to fire starting. Camille refocused on completing her own work, finishing their shelter and bed. Leaving the cave, she set up the water catchment system and adjusted the Rover’s position as a rain door.

With shelter and water taken care of, she checked in on Richard’s progress with alarm. 

Richard knelt near the pile of twigs and small branches he’d assembled for the fire. He’d taken the time to ring the fire pit with rocks he’d scavenged from deeper in the cave and to stack the wood to be used later. The pervasive smell of petrol informed her that he’d doused the wood to ensure ignition yet both the petrol can and Richard sat perilously close to the fire’s flash area. 

 

“Richard, STOP!” Camille commanded him. 

“I’ll have this started in a minute, Camille.”

“STOP! You’ll set yourself on fire!” she yelled this time, running to grab the matches from him. 

 

Snatching the petrol can, Camille sealed it again and carried the can back to its storage place on the inside of the Rover’s rear door. On her trip back to the fire pit she noted what she had missed before: Richard moved very slowly, his good hand shaking so badly he continually dropped the match he handled. His torso swayed erratically, seemingly unable to remain upright and stationary in his kneeling position.

Running now, she took the matches and lit the fire. Richard Poole’s brain still held reserves even when his body was about to give out: the fire he’d built sprang to life so vigorously that Camille was able to add wet logs immediately. With heat crawling outward from the fire, she tenderly helped Richard to stand up and hustled him as fast as he would go over to the tent. 

Holding him against her body to take his temperature, she felt the rhythmic tremors and chill blains rocking through him as his temperature dropped like a stone. 

 

Richard Poole was going into shock.

___________________________________ 

 

**_Risks_ **

 

Fear for him brought tears that would serve no purpose, so Camille shut them down. With practiced hands she undressed him and discovered the extent of his injuries. Richard could not hide the yelp her light touch yanked from him when she removed his shirt over his damaged shoulder. From neck to knees Richard sported nasty-looking bruises from his tumble in the Rover and his fall, some with swelling.

Her hands at his belt buckle had once been his fondest wish but Camille worried her lower lip as his usual quips and physical responses were nowhere to be found.

Having stripped him of the wet clothes, Camille examined Richard's nude, shaking body closely. She decided the shoulder probably had left its socket. If shock hadn’t set in she’d have levered it back in place. As it was, she left it alone. 

Camille sprinted to the catchment reservoir with three clean sling packets from the trauma kit. Tipping the collection container, she soaked the cloths before sprinting back to a naked Richard. She decided the risk of losing him to hypothermia outweighed the risk of infection from the unfiltered rainwater.

 

“This may make you colder for a little while but I think you’ll be more comfortable without that mud on you.  Are you itching?”

“Y-Y-Y-Y-e-e-e-e-s-s-s-s-s!” he stuttered out between chattering teeth.

 

Camille carefully wiped him down from hair to heels with the damp cloths and a small amount of liquid camp soap, rinsing the sling cloths multiple times to get him fairly clean. Using an old blanket they kept in the Rover she dried him thoroughly. This much contact with her bare hands would normally have had him ready for sex in seconds; instead, Richard stood there compliantly with no evidence that she’d touched him all over.

Retrieving a stretch wrap from the first aid kit, she wrapped his arm against his body to relieve the dead weight and some of the pain.

 

“When did you hurt your shoulder?”

 

Her words distracted the injured DI somewhat from the intense agony the wrapping incited.

 

“Rover.” was all Richard could grunt out.

“You should have told me! I wouldn't have sent you chasing wood with a dislocation.”

“Y-Y-Y-Yes you w-w-w-would.” came back, a touch of the old days.

“I don’t want you ill, Inspector -”

 

Richard groaned; Camille lightened her touch, mistaking his utterance as a reaction to her ministration. He'd actually groaned at her resumption of addressing him as “Inspector”; he’d thought the ice woman was finally thawing.

 

“- I want you well so I can  _kill_  you myself.” she finished. 

 

Richard would have smiled but for the intense pain.

 

“Voila! Does that feel better?”

 

He swayed then twisted slowly; the wrap did provide relief.

 

“Th-Th-Th-Thank you, C-C-C-Camille. I d-d-d-don’t m-m-m-mean to b-b-be a b-b-b-burden.” he muttered.

 

“And you wouldn’t be if you’d just  _talk_  to me, Richard.”

 

Richard smiled as much as the shock would let him; she’d called him “Richard” again so the “Inspector” must have been teasing. Teasing meant progress so teasing was good. 

 

“Let’s get you under some covers. We’ll have to find a position you’re comfortable in. There’s an air mattress under all these sleeping bags so you should be comfortable. Come.”

 

Kindly pushes got Richard into the tent. Camille had to help him from standing to kneeling and from kneeling to laying down, with many brief stops to allow the pain to dissipate. Slow wiggling helped him find a position he could tolerate for a while. Camille covered him in all the sleeping bags, unzipped fully and opened butterfly-style.

Backing out of the tent, Camille used Richard’s wet clothes to remove the small splashes of mud her own “rain shower” left behind. Shucking her boots, she lifted the flap and reentered the tent.

She sat, cross-legged, and observed Richard. Full-body shudders wracked him every 45 to 60 seconds. While the shaking meant his body was fighting to generate heat she agonized whether the shock or his natural healing powers would win that battle.

 

Up here under these conditions, with no medical support and no communications, she’d lose him.

 

_______________________________  

 

Rising, Camille spoke loudly to him as she left the tent.

 

“Richard! Talk to me. How are you feeling?”

 

Her words drifted into his tired, slow brain. All he really wanted to do was sleep but Camille kept bugging him, as usual. No different than after they had sex: he wanted to go comatose and she wanted to start all over again. Although he did seem to remember that he had a knack for putting  _her_  to sleep when he was on his game.

 

“I was having a n-n-n-nice n-n-n-nap and d-d-d-dreaming about s-s-s-sex until s-s-s-some sh-sh-sh-shrew y-y-y-y-yelled at m-m-m-me.”

“Sex, huh? Maybe that would warm you up.” 

 

He heard her chuckling and decided to take a risk.

 

“N-n-n-not b-b-b-bloody l-l-l-l-likely. B-b-b-been so l-l-l-long I can’t r-r-r-r-remember what to d-d-do or why it f-f-f-feels so g-g-g-good.”

“Really? How long?”

 

Richard’s addled brain told him this wasn’t idle chatter. Every door Camille was reopening had an entry fee. He needed to get this one right. Shaking, however, tore the answer from his lips so savagely he couldn’t form the words or force any air past his vocal cords.

 

“Richard? Talk to me!”

“I w-w-w-will when these b-b-b-blasted t-t-t-tremors p-p-p-pass. And w-w-w-what are you d-d-d-doing all the w-w-w-way over th-th-th-there? R-R-R-Running away from m-m-m-me again? I’d f-f-f-find another c-c-c-cave and let you have th-th-th-this one if I th-th-th-thought you wouldn’t th-th-th-thrash me for t-t-t-trying.”

 

Camille rammed the filter into the catchment reservoir where it sat next to the Rover and pumped twelve ounces of filtered water directly into a metal camp mug for Richard. Hustling into the cave, she knelt near the fire and sat the mug in the embers at the edge of the fire to heat the water, flames lazily licking the vessel’s edges.

 

“No, chér, I’m not running away. I’m making you a cup of tea to warm you up. I think you have a touch of hypothermia.”

 

With a puzzle to solve - his own medical situation - Richard’s brain upshifted a gear to allow faster processing. Calling him “chér” helped his recovery along.

 

“This c-c-cave is quite c-c-c-old considering it’s on this b-b-b-bloody s-s-s-sweltering island.”

“It stay between 18-deg and 22-deg C year round. The tunnels were formed by an old volcano when Saint-Marie was young.” 

 

No response came. 

 

Camille curled a finger around the cup handle, giving herself a small blister burn in the process, and reentered the tent. Pouring tea powder from an MRE meal into the cup, she stirred the almost hot tea with a finger then placed the cup to his lips after checking the temperature with her own. He’d zoned out on her again; she needed him awake until the tremors stopped. She forced him to drink until he’d emptied the mug.

More direct heat would be required until the fire warmed the cave.

Hunched over in the tent, Camille stood as best she could and stripped to her underwear, throwing her remaining clothing outside the flap. She sent a silent thanks to Le Bon Dieu that she’d dressed practically and not provocatively. Her bra and briefs would avoid problems for them both.

Sliding under the mound of sleeping bags brought a groan from Richard but no other response.

 

 _That’s pain, not awareness that I’m this close,_ Camille concluded.

 

He was slipping away while she held him in her arms.

 

“RICHARD!”

“B-B-B-BLOODY HELL, WOMAN! I’m N-N-N-NOT D-D-D-DEAF!”

“You can’t go to sleep! Talk to me! Tell me about the case.”

“F-F-F-Fine! 

 

“The c-c-c-case started in London. Vicky Woodward kept files on her boss. She’d known for some time that the L-L-L-Lintman B-B-B-Brokerage passed its new investor m-m-m-money to its current investors....”

 

* * *

 

Neighbors and friends vacated the windows and doors when Harriet approached, making sure she had a clear path to a clear view of the access road and parking lot outside the school that now served as a storm shelter. 

Every so often she would find a warm cup of something calming in her hand; most of the time the source of the liquid wore a priest’s collar and rolled up sleeves. Charlie Dean made sure Harriet stayed on her feet while the status of her daughter, grand-daughter and son-in-law remained in question. 

Charlie sent an extra prayer for Dwayne Myers, a man he’d known a long time. The lengths Dwayne might go to for the Best family's sake wore heavily on the priest. Reports of housing cascading down in mudslides were already coming in over international radio. The one working satellite phone provided Google satellite images of mud rivers with house debris in them. 

 

They’d yet to see a single image they didn’t recognize; the inhabitants of the shelter knew every family of every house now confirmed to be rubble.

_______________________________ 

 

The ride down the hill scared Fidel. Competent though he was to drive the motorcycle, the bike was Dwayne’s baby. That thought brought tears hidden in rain. Against his chest his daughter whimpered at all the scary experiences still in her young mind while his wife cried from the stress of keeping their daughter and herself safe until Fidel could get them down the mountain. 

Juliet considered how close they’d come to not getting downhill at all. Growing up on the island she’d seen many storms - hurricane and rain - and with a child’s lack of concern hadn’t given them a second thought. Two events changed that - Rosie’s birth and the pronouncement of the nice expert for the UN.

The retaining wall had been built by the Army during World War II. Juliet’s family rented out the original house to U.S. troops performing classified intelligence work and reconnaissance on German ships and subs in the Caribbean. With the money earned, her grandfather rebuilt the block house into a roomier home. 

Juliet’s older siblings had all married and started families in the family homestead before spreading their wings elsewhere on the island. Her father’s final resting place lay just uphill of the mud slithering towards the house. Although Fidel hadn’t wanted to, Juliet had insisted they remain with her mother and save money for their own place rather than rent forever; her instincts proved prescient as she conceived Rosie before their first anniversary.

 

Rosie changed everything - especially today.

 

The bustling and yelling unsettled the little girl who would not cooperate with her mother or grandmother. Harriet made arrangements to get the family and their most precious belongings - photos, official records and the formula for their rum cooler - down to the shelter along with enough clothing to be hygienic. Rosie refused to get dressed, refused to stay dressed and refused to leave her mother. With light rain falling, Harriet and Juliet saw no harm in Rosie coming down with Juliet on the scooter; they’d ridden it together in worse weather.

The moving sea of mud petrified Juliet. She'd stopped packing and grabbed Rosie, determined to leave immediately. Unfortunately, the scooter - left in the rain accidentally - got condensation in the fuel line and wouldn’t start. With the phones out she feared leaving and missing Fidel, who she was sure would be coming for them when he discovered their absence from the shelter.

So they waited it out.

Then the retaining wall collapsed and the possibility of losing her baby to the slowly engulfing blob rendered her senseless. Collecting as many clothes and plastic items as possible, she dressed Rosie in all of them, overlaid with plastic sheeting and bags, and headed for the roof through the access stairs. Huddled in a corner opposite the drain, Fidel found them there a half-hour after their escape from the creeping mud.

 

Now they glided down the hill as fast as Fidel dared go, their baby strapped to her daddy and their friend stranded up on the hill.

 

Juliet decided that if it were their time to die today, at least they would be together. With that thought she sent up a silent prayer and relaxed her death grip around Fidel’s waist.

 

Her family’s safety was in God’s hands now, a kindly God who sent Fidel and Dwayne to care for them.

 

* * *

 

**_Revelation - I_ **

 

“Vicky W-W-W-woodward is a very clever woman. P-P-P-Powell had no idea how much she’d learned about his b-b-b-business. I have to s-s-s-say I w-w-w-wondered w-w-why she would remain his p-p-p-personal assistant after the b-b-b-business came apart.

“Helen R-R-R-Reed, Sasha’s s-s-s-sister, was f-f-f-fronting for a London organized c-c-c-crime subsidiary heavily invested in identity reassignment. She’d b-b-b-been introduced to their s-s-s-services after the a-a-a-accident that let her c-c-c-claim her sister’s life and husband. Helen and J-J-J-James used her sister’s m-m-m-money to “b-b-b-buy a f-f-f-franchise” in the identity re-re-re-reassignment b-b-b-business. 

“H-H-H-Helen’s identity reassignment was revealed to S-S-S-SOCA when the c-c-c-clearinghouse on B-B-B-Bonaire got raided by Interpol. SOCA matched her prints in the facility to the same fingerprints found in her shoplifting arrest file. The c-c-c-clearinghouse d-d-d-didn't 'dispose' of those for h-h-h-h-her; I would h-h-h-hypothesize that Lavender's g-g-g-gang kept this information to c-c-c-control former clients - blackmail material.

“Helen used th-th-th-their services to m-m-m-modify ‘official’ d-d-d-documents she couldn’t f-f-f-fake herself or g-g-g-get around providing. Sh-Sh-Sh-She b-b-b-bulletp-p-p-proofed her p-p-p-paperwork t-t-t-takeover of S-S-S-Sasha’s identity.

“Helen p-p-p-performed as a mid-level f-f-f-functionary within the identity reassignment group. Th-Th-Th-There's e-e-e-evidence Helen was c-c-c-coerced into running the operations b-b-b-but it's n-n-n-not unassailable. The clearinghouse h-h-h-handled everything m-m-m-moving through the C-C-C-Caribbean - acquisition, c-c-c-c-collection, identity cleaning, s-s-s-sale and redistribution of s-s-s-stolen identities. 

“D-D-D-Doctor T-T-T-Tipping’s p-p-p-plastic s-s-s-surgery clinic on Saint-M-M-M-Marie w-w-w-was only one of a n-n-n-network of one-stop pr-pr-pr-processing c-c-c-centers - identity reassignment, f-f-f-facial m-m-m-modification and an education in using Lintman Investments as a p-p-p-preferred m-m-m-money l-l-l-laundering p-p-p-provider. A-A-A-Anna J-J-J-Jones actually worked for L-L-L-Lavender’s organization.

“L-L-L-Lintman Investments’ w-w-w-wouldn’t have existed w-w-w-without the thousands and thousands of p-p-p-pounds the L-L-L-Lavender gang put through the f-f-f-firm almost every hour of every d-d-d-day. L-L-L-Lintman traded across th-th-th-three-quarters of the globe - the fund only closed for t-t-t-trading three hours out of every 24. 

“To-to k-k-k-keep from having too much d-d-d-detailed knowledge, P-P-P-Powell set up a special c-c-c-class of account - institutional accounts - th-th-th-that had few regulations or r-r-r-r-reporting requirements within the f-f-f-firm...”

 

Richard’s voice trailed off slowly, almost hypnotizing Camille. It had been months since she’d been this close to another human being.

__________________________________  

**_Responsibility_ **

 

“Richard? RICHARD! Wake up, chér.”

“I’m t-t-tired, Camille. J-J-J-Just l-l-l-let me s-s-s-sleep.”

“Not yet. How about something to eat? We have two flavors of 'Meals Ready to Eat' - beef bourginon and chicken stew.”

“S-S-S-Sounds awful.”

 

Camille’s laugh brought him back from the fog.

 

“Chicken st-st-st-stew. I ref-f-f-fuse to eat anything r-r-r-remotely ‘French’”

 

Richard tensed for a smack at his cheekiness but Camille surprised him with a kiss to his forehead. Rolling out of the covers, she reoriented - facing the tent flap on her hands and knees. A contented sigh came from the warming body under the covers. Dragging the case of MREs next to the tent zipper, Camille removed two and sat back down.

 

“Richard? Are you ogling me?” she asked playfully to keep him talking.

“Of c-c-c-course not. I’ve g-g-g-grown used to w-w-w-women w-w-w-waving their shapely p-p-p-posteriors just b-b-b-beyond my r-r-r-reach. I was t-t-t-trapped on a b-b-b-boat off of M-M-Monaco and the F-F-F-French Riviera for w-w-w-weeks.”

“Careful what you say, Inspector, or  _all_  you’ll be able to do is  _dream_  about sex.

“Can you sit up? I have your dinner.” she questioned in deference to his injuries.

“I’m n-n-not helpless.” came back at her with pique.

 

Refusing Camille’s assistance, Richard struggled to get upright, pushing against the air mattress inefficiently as the surface gave way under his supporting hand. After several aborted attempts, Camille concluded that the best arrangement placed Richard leaning back against her. Seating herself behind him gingerly, Camille adjusted him until his grunting ceased. She handed him his MRE.

 

“Pull the -”

“Camille I’m n-n-not a b-b-bloody invalid.”

“Okay, Mr. Grumpy - open it yourself.”

 

Time passed with grunting and muttering.

 

“C-Camille, if you wouldn’t m-mind...”

 

With Richard resting in front of her, Camille spooned small chunks of stew into his mouth from the self-heating package, careful not to choke him. Whether because of his injuries or the strenuous afternoon of wood collecting and suffocating in mud, Richard actually enjoyed the stew and the cherry cobbler dessert included in the packet.

 

The worst of the tremors had stopped although the chill blains were still visible on his skin.

 

Laying him down again, Camille invested a solid fifteen or twenty minutes in producing potable water. The water filtration system - consisting of a funnel-like sluice, two collapsable 25 litre containers with screw-on access, tubing and a .05-micron hand-pump filter -  could provide up to 20 litres of drinkable water per “catch”.

The stalled storm provided copious amounts of rainwater that sluiced through the catchment funnel (duct-taped to the Rover’s radio antenna), down the tubing and into a translucent white 25-litre container. Well-designed and sturdy, the documentation explained the extra 5-liter catch capacity as “spillage allotment”. Camille had once suggested to the Commissioner that Richard must have approved the design.

Camille lugged this into the cave near the fire and continued the purification process. Attaching the sucking end of the filter pump to the white reservoir, she snaked the output hose into the light blue 20-litre “clean” reservoir and began pushing and pulling the handle to move water from the catchment container, through the filter and into the blue “clean water” container. 

Because of Richard’s injuries, Camille placed purification tablets into the clean water container just to be safe. The last thing Richard needed was an attack from some tropical intestinal parasite that would keep him trotting for days. Big as the cave was Camille didn’t think it was big enough for  _that_ problem _._  Opening the unused cooking kit, she removed the metal mugs and hauled the clean water reservoir and cups over near the tent flap where they could easily be reached.

 

Thoughts about sanitation motivated Camille to dig a latrine just outside the cave entrance near the rear of the Rover on the downhill side of the truck; the entrenching tool they kept in the truck worked well for this purpose. The cave’s wide overhang ensured the facility’s “guest” wouldn’t get drenched relieving themselves. 

The emergency survival kit contained the necessary decomposition chemicals as well as a convenient portable “seat” with short legs that could be assembled in seconds. She gave the seat a thorough disinfecting with the included wipes then reassembled the kit in its bag and hung it from the Rover’s dry-side passenger door.

 

As they had several, Camille hung a headlamp on the dry-side driver’s door and left it on the “FLASH LED” setting as a sort of nightlight. She expected Richard would require help getting to and from the latrine (even if he was too stubborn to request it) but she wanted to give him as much independence as possible. 

 

It could be a week before the rain stopped and they could leave their shelter.

 

* * *

  

Two and a half hours after Fidel first pulled into the parking lot at the school shelter in the UN car, he once again drove up the access road and straight to the doors leading to the gymnasium - on the RSMPF motorcycle  _sans sidecar_.

Charlie Dean heard the whine before Harriet realized her family was only minutes from joining her. Donning a slicker and braving the worsening elements, he met Fidel at the motorcycle and got Juliet inside. Fidel followed with Rosie securely fastened to his chest.

Heads swiveled looking for the other bookend on the Saint-Marie police force. Dwayne’s absence got the attention of many in the shelter. Half the group was Dwayne’s extended family.

 

“Where’s Officer Myers?” Charlie Dean asked with rising alarm. Disasters, the pastor sadly remembered, seldom came one at a time.

“A tree blocked my path. I couldn’t get the car up the road so Dwayne took me to the house. We wouldn’t all fit...”

 

Tears shared by Harriet and Juliet evidenced the unspoken fear for Dwayne’s continued safety.

 

“The wall collapsed, just like the engineer said it would. The mud was coming into the house but it was still standing when we left Dwayne.” Juliet added.

“I’m going back for him.” Fidel declared in a matter of fact manner.

 

The howling tears from Juliet ran through Fidel like lava. 

 

“Go, Fidel. Hurry! Dwayne’s quite resourceful but he’ll need shelter soon. Get a sandwich and some coffee. I’ll see if I can find some dry clothes for you - “ and with  a smile of agreement and pride, Charlie Dean moved off into the crowd to collect suitable clothing for Fidel.

 

* * *

  

Back inside the cave Camille used a spare pot to heat water. Dotting herself with liquid camping soap, she cleansed herself more thoroughly, idle thoughts drifting to the unresolved situation between herself and her boss... friend... boyfriend... fiancé... whatever.  

Forgiveness remained elusive; Richard’s boneheaded decision not to tell her SOCA’s plan left her bereft and depressed. With plans like the one that “killed” Richard she understood  _completely_  why SOCA was changing its name to National Crime Agency; the old name clearly stood for “imbecile”. 

Considering the state of their relationship, Camille decided to launder only her outerwear - her blouse, shorts, t-shirt and socks - in the small basin in the emergency kit; she would rinse out her underwear tomorrow after she assessed Richard’s ability to move around - and out of - the cave on his own. Right now, sidling up next to him naked would complicate all of the major repairs their relationship required.

Stringing a clothesline to the warm side of the fire, she hung all their wet clothing up. With the remaining warm water Camille made Richard another cup of tea and rejoined him in the tent. 

 

“Richard?”

“Yes, Camille...”

“Are you asleep?”

“Did you have to ask that?”

“I was being polite. You need some fluids. Here - let me help you up.”

 

Leaning on Camille stilled Richard's remaining shaking. With his back to her front and her arms around him, Camille supported him as he supported the cup and sipped the tea.

 

“We need to do something about that shoulder. It will keep you from resting comfortably.”

“YOU are keeping me from resting comfortably. I’ve almost been asleep three times and you woke me from some very satisfying dreams.”

“So what ample-breasted Amazon were you with?” 

 

Her question held only the mildest jest.

 

“Camille,” Richard responded in earnest, “I only dream that way about you.”

 

Camille let the statement pass without comment.

 

“You haven’t finished explaining about Lintman. Oh! Give me your watch.”

“ _Why do you want my watch_?”

 

Every now and then Camille forgot how  _Eeenglish_  Richard could be.

In the evening light sneaking into the cave, Richard’s childish attempt to keep her away from his watch by hiding his arm under the sleeping bags brought humor and exasperation to her expression.

 

“I have to wake you every two hours. Mine doesn’t have an alarm and my cell is dead.”

“How will I get any sleep!?”

“Sorry. The hypothermia protocol is the same as for a concussion. You can give me your watch or I can wrestle you for it. Tell me about the assignment.”

 

In her arms, Richard relaxed at her playfulness - although he knew she could take him out if she chose to.  

Little by little their isolation forced communications and possibly reconciliation. Richard hoped Camille wasn’t being nice to him only because of his injury; he couldn’t go back to cold, professional Camille. If that were their relationship objective, he’d transfer to the National Crime Agency (SOCA’s new name) facility in London - as far away from reminders of Camille as he could get without joining the French Foreign Legion. 

 

The thought occurred that the British ought to have their own damn Foreign Legion so citizens of the United Kingdom would have their own military to run away to. 

 

* * *

 

 

The minute Fidel and his family were out of sight Dwayne ran with surprising speed back to the porch and initiated his own rescue.

 

Dwayne, having grown up on Saint-Marie, had many acquaintances up in these hills. For a brief moment he’d considered going further up the hillside and trying to locate them. But with no phone he had no way of determining where his best options lay; the trip would be one way given the increasing intensity of the storm and Dwayne’s increasing fatigue - he could end up stranded further from help. Downhill, he concluded, remained the best choice.

Dragging the scooter under an overhang near Fidel’s maintenance shed, Dwayne snatched the seat up, nearly snapping the hinge, to get a good look at the engine. He had a reasonable suspicion, based on his own long and sordid history with two-wheel vehicles of every kind, that Juliet let the bike get wet while she assembled their backpacks and chased Rosie. If that were true the problem might be as simple as condensation or small amounts of water in the fuel line or petrol tank. 

With the storm announcing its presence with authority, he tried the easiest solution first.

 

Running back into Fidel’s house, Dwayne located Fidel’s bathroom from memory - portions of the interior had been redecorated with mud. Fidel and Juliet had major cleanup ahead but Dwayne was thankful for their sake that the rear wall of the house seemed sound. Mud oozed in under doors and through wooden shutters broken by the sheer weight of wet dirt moving against them.

Rummaging hurriedly, he found his intended booty - isopropyl alcohol. Sprinting again - and feeling it in his knees - he braved the back living area and dug through the mud for the spirits cabinet door. Tugging hard enough the bend the hinges back, he reached in and retrieved two unopened bottles of rum - courtesy of Catherine. Finished with his scavenging he bolted out of the house as the mud moved and covered the cabinet with more muck then he’d have been willing to deal with.

Back at the scooter, Dwayne carefully checked the fuel tank; he had about half a tankful. Half of that would be lost to removed hoses and disassembly spillage. He calculated mentally that he could ride downhill on a quarter tank if he coasted during the steepest portions. Saving petrol for the last two miles near the school would be paramount.

 

With a plan in place, he scrambled around the maintenance shed looking for enough spanners and crosshead screwdrivers to disassemble the fuel line and clear any water. If his plan worked, he could drain of most of the water in the tank using the fuel line tubing; water would sit at the bottom of the tank since it would be heavier than petrol. Once he saw golden petrol in the tubing he’d reassemble the entire fuel line and start the engine. If it started, after a bit of priming, he’d add a small amount of the rubbing alcohol to the tank. The rubbing alcohol would mix with any remaining condensation or water and create a dilute alcohol solution. This would mix with the petrol and keep the scooter’s engine running - albeit with a bit of sputtering and backfiring.

Chasing around in the shed for a container to catch the water/petrol drainage he nearly did a dance; sitting on Fidel’s work shelf was a big, beautiful two-litre can of petrol. Shaking it vigorously Dwayne calculated he had enough to return the scooter’s tank to half full. He’d still need the alcohol trick but his success probability skyrocketed with the added fuel.

The fuel line draining required too much time by his reckoning; he hadn’t considered the impact of wet hands on metal tools. Wet hands also slowed the reassembly but not as much as he feared. The most harrowing experience was the seemingly endless tries to get the engine and fuel line free of air and primed for a start. Dwayne suspected that Juliet might have flooded the little two-cylinder engine during her frantic attempts to get her daughter and herself away from the mud monster climbing into their house.

If that were the case, Dwayne decided, his best course would be force a little alcohol into the fuel intake and let the mixture sit until it would spark.

Carefully mixing alcohol and petrol, Dwayne tilted drops of the mixture into one of the carburetor flaps then resealed the engine. Picking the front wheel up, he shook the scooter vigorously to force mixing and to vent his increasing impatience with still being on this mountainside.

 

Failure followed failure in a line of start attempts numbering near one hundred until he heard a putter, then another then a shudder as the engine came to life. The battery nearly died in the attempts.

 

Dwayne found the driest spot near the scooter and listened for the scooter’s aggrieved engine to settle into some pattern indicating it could be ridden. He used the time to grab a pack and shove in the tools, the alcohol, a flashlight he’d found in the shed and one of the two bottles of rum. The pack just fit in the under-seat storage.

 

Then Dwayne Myers lowered himself onto a short stool and worked diligently to empty the other bottle of rum as storm clouds overcame what should have been a bright, sunny day on Saint-Marie.

 

* * *

**_Revelation - II_ **

 

“So Powell set up these ‘cookie jars’ for big investors and never really paid attention to whose fingers were in them. Bigger and bigger amounts of cash came in from these new customers like Helen and James, who had a bit of their own money riding through the Lintman accounts as well..

“I know you understand how a Ponzi scheme works so I won’t belabor the explanation.  New customers’ money goes directly to old customers as ‘investment’ profits. The more cash in, the more profits out. Lintman Investments was a Ponzi scheme, plain and simple.

“Things were going along swimmingly. Money kept rolling in from these illegal organizations, including Lavender’s. Lintman kept paying profits and dividends on the backs of the never-ending hoard of new investors. Powell skimmed off the top while Lintman became the darling of the jet setters and big-time entertainment types.

“SOCA ratcheted up their pursuit when one of the fake identities came up in a trafficking case. Apparently the identity of one of SOCA’s Caribbean undercover agents had been stolen and compromised for some time. Interpol’s analysis indicated there might be more than one mole on the task force.

 

“So what was Vicky Woodward’s role in all of this?”

 

“Excellent question, Sergeant. Vicky Woodward paid attention to everything going on at Lintman. The SOCA theory, until they debriefed her, held that she got greedy and impatient watching new millionaires being made every day. Ms. Woodward was far more ambitious than that.

“Powell had never dealt with organized crime before and made some mistakes - got complacent thinking the money would go on forever. But that wasn’t his biggest error; his biggest error sat at a desk right outside his office: one Vicky Woodward.

“Ms. Woodward, a rather plain-jane with no real social life -”

 

“Sounds familiar -”

 

“ _Ms. Woodward_ ,” he emphasized - ignoring her jibe, “came to Powell with a facile mind and a near eidetic memory. Hardworking ‘Girl Friday’. She learned every aspect of Powell’s business, including the amount of money coming from organized crime and the difference between incoming assets and investment profits paid out.

“She figured out Powell was skimming money meant to be laundered and returned to the crime organizations.

“It looks like, although she hasn't admitted it yet, she made some kind of deal with one of the invested crime gangs - the Lavender group - to hunt down the money. While the gangs were deciding how to get their money back, Vicky discovered the link between the money laundering through Lintman and the identity reassignment business. 

“She didn’t fathom it all, just enough to realize she might be able to double cross the Lavender gang, keep Powell’s ill-gotten gains and disappear under one of those very fake identities being paid for by the Ponzi scheme.

“With Ms. Woodward's activities disrupting SOCA’s careful investigation of Lintman Investments and the underworld connection, SOCA decided to accelerate their activities. They hoped Vicky Woodward would provide credible intelligence they could use to tie the wiggling pieces together - Ponzi scheme, money laundering and identity reassignment; especially since many of the principals ended up alive or dead on Saint-Marie.

“When they discovered I was an acquaintance of one of the identity thieves and that we had just arrested Vicky Woodward who was a player in the ‘Where’s Powell’s Money?’ game, they suggested I participate in debriefing Vicky Woodward and the chief volunteered me. 

 

“Well, he thought he volunteered me; actually turns out they mentioned my name and the Commissioner agreed. Sneaky devils, these undercover police agencies.”

 

Camille considered this while she eased him back onto the air mattress. 

_________________________________

 

**_Regard_ **

 

Crawling out of the tent again, Camille padded over to the fire. Scooping an armload of the largest branches and small logs she teepee’d them above the glowing embers. A few long, thin twigs, swirled earlier through the petrol in the can, ignited the pile again when she threw the kindling onto the embers.

Satisfied that the blaze would heat the cave for another 3 hours, Camille made her way back to the tent.

 

“Come on, Richard, up you go!” she enthused, “You haven’t had anything to drink since the tea. You should be drinking a quarter to a third of a liter of water every hour.  Be a good boy and finish this for me.

 

Richard yawned loudly. Camille looked him over and decided what she saw was genuine sleepiness; they’d both been up since dawn. Too tired to argue, Richard winced and grunted himself into an upright position. 

 

More aware now of his surroundings, Richard leaned back against the tent side and onto the wall on the other side of the tent.

 

“Camille, you must be exhausted. Lie down a moment; I’ll wake you in two hours.”

“I’m not tired,” she yawned back then chuckled at the lie her body made to her statement.

“Give it here -” she commanded him with her patented snap-point.

 

Hand outstretched, Camille’s curling finger demanded Richard remove and hand over his watch. 

 

“You’re serious, aren’t you!?”

 

Camille’s left eyebrow arched in answer to his question.

Huffing at the indignity, Richard removed the timepiece and handed it to Camille.

 

“Merci.”

 

Stretching, Camille scooted under the top cover, fitting herself around Richard’s legs, and laid down. In the radiant light from the fire, Camille counted each involuntary shudder, timing them in her head. She hadn’t been as fussy about the covers when he sat up but the increased rate of shaking changed her mind.

 

“Richard, lie down and cover yourself. It’s evening and the temperature is dropping.”

“Yes Nurse Ratchit,” Mr. Grumpy mumbled under his breath.

 

By laying still, Richard found he could manage the dull pain from his shoulder sufficiently to hold a conversation. Hours of rest challenged his ability to drift off; so did his desire to talk through the issues between Camille and himself. 

 

“How are you, Camille?”

 

Camille feigned sleep - she was truly exhausted and would only sleep in two hour increments for another twelve to fourteen hours.

 

“Camille, I know your breathing as well as I know my own. You’re not asleep.”

“Richard, now’s not the right... circumstance to catch up. You’re hurt and I’m tired. Let’s do this another time.”

“When, Camille? Until this tropical disaster we barely spoke outside of complaints from you -”

“A habit I learned from you, Inspector Poole.”

 

To her surprise, he laughed ruefully.

 

“You’re right. My SOCA handler wrote that up in my evaluation.  What did she say  ‘Dissatisfied with the status quo.’ How are you?”

 

Pain of a different sort rocketed through him when she began to cry.

 

“I am... better now that you’re alive and back on Saint-Marie. I’m controlling my anger and trying to be civil when we’re together. When I see you I’m confused - how can I be so happy to have you back and so furious when I’m around you at the same time? I’ve considered transferring back to France to make it easier on both of us.”

 

At his sharp intake of breath she rose, rolling onto her side to check him with her hand.

 

“Where do you hurt? Your shoulder?

“What you said. About leaving Saint-Marie. It...  _shocked_  me, thats all.”

“Then you understand, at least a little, what walking onto that patio and seeing your body with an ice pick in your chest did to me. I’m not ready to talk about this, Richard. Let me sleep, please.”

 

Camille rolled away from Richard and slept when her sobbing ceased. Richard lay awake, contemplating whether his decisions concerning the SOCA assignment had permanently ruined their relationship.

________________________________ 

 

Richard’s chrono alarm beeped annoyingly for almost ten minutes before Camille roused and hit the button. If her pattern had not changed, Richard predicted three more snoozes before she would finally wake and start moving around. 

In the fire light Richard re-immersed himself in Camille’s waking up ritual.

First, she stretched, arching her back in a manner that silhouetted her breast in the fire’s light; he could make out the outline of her nipples even in this illumination. Her hands joined as her arms extended over her head and she made those stretching sounds he loved; the sounds were always more pronounced  after lovemaking but he also enjoyed them the mornings after their nights together.

Then she sat - crossed legs, yoga style - and rotated her head and neck to work out the kinks. When they’d been a couple, this particular behavior led to morning delight 42% of the time. Camille taught him to take time to be together even if it meant a mad rush to get to work on time. She’d changed his priorities - as long as there wasn’t a murder sitting on his desk to be solved.

 

In silence, she felt his forehead and pulled back the covers to check his tremors.  

Without a word - he didn’t believe she thought he still slept - Camille left the tent to tend the fire. The rainy, cool evening breeze and the reflected warmth of the fire made for a comfortable atmosphere. Richard jokingly considered moving into the cave from the beach shack if his nights would be this cool.

He stoked her frustration when she climbed in the tent and found him sitting up with no covers.

 

“You are the  _worst_  patient. You need some cover - you’re still trembling.”

“That’s not hypothermia, Camille - that’s you.”

 

Camille grinned in spite of her continuing anger with him.

 

* * *

 

 

 


	7. -

Food and hot coffee in his belly and proper rain gear (donated by friends and neighbors at the shelter) on his body, Fidel managed to keep despair at bay. 

Truth to tell, his relationship with Dwayne had changed since getting his sergeant’s stripes. Fidel spent more time now with the Chief and far less time with Dwayne. The pattern had started with DI Humphrey Goodman where a real tug-of-war began between the two junior officers on the force. With Fidel working hard for promotions and Dwayne working hard to enjoy his life on the island, they clashed in ways neither predicted nor prepared for. 

Authority became a silent challenge. The younger man became senior to the older, a role change that didn’t suit Dwayne’s world view well. During Humphrey’s time on the island Fidel had to laugh at Dwayne’s half-hearted attempts to be more professional and less instinctive in his working style. His obvious-as-a-sore-thumb surveillance of Captain Jack Parrot had Humphrey _and_ Fidel laughing. Dwayne’s style would never be by-the-book.

During team time at La Kaz Dwayne invested time with Catherine and Camille more than Fidel and Humphrey to Fidel’s great sadness; thinking on it now he missed the old man who had been his friend. Dwayne stopped spending much time at Fidel’s home. Where once they’d have dinner together at least twice a week (with Dwayne supplying most of the meal to avoid burdening the young family’s tight budget), now weeks might go by without a sighting. Dwayne spent most of his non-cuddling time with Camille.

In honest assessment, Dwayne had it all over Fidel in supporting Camille. Fidel admonished himself for not doing more for his colleague - they held the same rank but nowhere near the same experience - during her grief. Fidel recognized the difference in Camille’s work role right away. When the Chief lived, Camille had been his partner - solving crimes right along side him. Even the Chief admitted it had been Camille who forced him to analyze the evidence in the Doug Anderson case; without her “stubborn cuckolding” (as the Chief put it) he wouldn’t have considered the conspiracy angle at all. Camille’s input and experience held less sway with Humphrey Goodman; his analytical style tended more to “lone gunman”. 

Humphrey took them all along for the ride but there were times Fidel felt like an appendage, not a team member. Richard Poole’s resumption of duties as Chief of Police meant Fidel got fast-tracked for learning once again. Richard’s encyclopedic knowledge of science, forensics and short-cuts forced Fidel to keep a second notebook just for techniques openly stolen from the Chief.

 

DI Humphrey Goodman was weird and smart; the Chief was obsessive and brilliant. 

 

The two DI’s also shared one common interest: both fell in love with Camille Bordey. Fidel wondered if Humphrey ever figured out he stood no chance with Camille; he’d been bested by a dead man. Dwayne figured that out ahead of Fidel and made sure to protect Camille’s heart and career from the genuine but misplaced affections of the new DI.

Yet the changes in “the guys” professional working arrangements and personal friendship did not delay Dwayne’s efforts to retrieve Fidel and his family. Maybe this storm was just what their friendship needed. When he found Dwayne, not matter what, Fidel would work his butt off to be the friend to Dwayne that Dwayne had been to himself and Camille.

 

All that required was finding Dwayne alive.

 

* * *

 

When roughly an eighth of a tank of petrol had snaked its way through the fuel line and into the engine, Dwayne declared the scooter ready for the trip to the shelter. A careful reconnoitering added a bottle of water and another small container of petrol to his backpack stash along with Fidel’s scooter helmet. Forcing the helmet over his much larger head and wider ears, Dwayne made one last trip to the house to capture a picture of the mud with his mobile; it would help Fidel with the insurance claim.

Dwayne’s elegantly simple plan would start with a long, hopefully not slow, coast down the mountain road. While he couldn’t risk shutting the engine off, coasting under no throttle would save precious petrol until he arrived at the eventual curves and slight grade increases that would require power to overcome. While he could push the scooter if necessary, pushing meant more time on the mountain exposed to the storm. On the trip down he’d look for a few good spots to shelter if the scooter gave him trouble.

 

Astride the scooter, Dwayne’s feet paddled against Fidel’s wet drive path and propelled him onto the road to the shelter.


	8. -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17Apr14: If you think you've read this chapter before but it wasn't chapter 32, I apologize. I have been wrestling with AO3 auto-publishing draft chapters. Be sure to read the *actual* ch:'s 29-31. 
> 
> In deference to you long-suffering readers (who already suffer through reading my cra-... I mean amateur writing), I have posted the intermediate chapters so the story makes sense again. For this story, sequencing matters. I will correct errors as fast as possible. 
> 
> Again, my most mortified apologies. Sending virtual ale, stout, champagne, chocolate, rum, gin, or fruit punch as a gift for your understanding.

**_Revelation - III_ **

 

“Since you’re not sleepy, tell me more about your assignment.”

“I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have left you that way.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t SOCA’s plan - did they say they were planning to separate you and your DS?”

“They said you were part of the plan. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. Your reaction to my death would convince the local underworld representatives that I was really dead.”

“C’est des conneries! [That’s Bullshit!] I have enough undercover experience to act the part. What does SOCA think I am - some lovesick amateur!?”

“They confirmed we were ‘lovers’ - I really  _hate_ that term - and they explained to me that everyone on Saint-Marie and some people in the Met and SOCA knew about our relationship. They reasoned that your reaction would sell the ‘con‘ SOCA intended to execute.”

 

Hyperventilated breaths shot over to him in strong puffs, tickling his skin.  _Is she having an anxiety attack?_ he wondered.

 

“Once SOCA determined that my university chum ‘Sasha’ could be  covertly arrested and co-opted to assist in the con, our involvement -”

“Don’t say ‘our‘ Richard! I never agreed to this!”

“Right, right. Sorry. My involvement made the con work.  

“Helen agreed to confess all illegal acts and to participate in the con in return for a lighter sentence once she realized I had discerned her identity swap with her sister and informed SOCA.”

‘Why did they have to _kill_ you!?”

 

“Because the next step was to insert me into the Lavender gang’s money laundering organization to learn the business and to learn as much as possible about the identity reassignment activities in Europe and here. 

“In my spare time I tried to figure out if any of Powell’s or the Lintman Investment’s money could be located for the victims.

“I have a reputation for having above average memory and being a plain-jane; no one notices me. I’ll always be surprised that you did.”

 

Whatever she thought about his comment remained private.

 

“When I came back to Saint-Marie after escorting Vicky Woodward to London, SOCA started training me for the assignment.”

“When!? We were together then.”

 

Richard fondly remembered his “Welcome Home” present from Camille; it started with friends gathering at La Kaz on Friday and continued into an all-weekend private party at her place where he managed to go for 48 continuous hours without clothing.

 

“Those weeknights and weekends when I told you I was working out, I was at their facility - training. Some of the classroom training courses I completed online during the work day. 

“Sheila Holstrom coordinated my preparation.”

 

Even in this chill, Richard felt the heat rise. Camille was putting two and two together and she was about to punish him for it.

 

“That super model who managed to expose her breasts in every blouse she wore!? YOU TOLD ME SHE WAS AN EDUCATION CONSULTANT!”

“She is. For SOCA. I just happened to be her only client on Saint-Marie.”

“Then why did she demand all those private meetings with you at La Kaz!?”

 

Angry tears drifted down her cheeks. 

 _She’s tired,_ Richard reminded himself.

 

“To create the impression that there might have been something... more... going on. 

“It would help confuse any Lavender gang members watching me. SOCA worried that I would be associated with their Lintman investigation. 

“Powell’s murder didn’t necessarily require me to be involved with the SOCA investigation in London. SOCA wanted some misdirection. If I were ‘caught’ doing something unexpected, they wanted the local gang members to assume I was stepping out on you.

 

“Whose idea was the _infidelity_?”

 

Her inflection could _not_ be mistaken.

 

“First - nothing happened, Camille. Sheila’s happily married with a family.”

“You’re ducking. Quel imbécile pensé ce haut!?  [What idiot thought this up!?]”

 

His green eyes sought hers to communicate the truth of his next answer.

 

“The ‘affair’ idea came from me.”

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!?”

 

“I thought... I wanted to...

“I wanted you safe. If everything went pear-shaped they’d go looking for Sheila, not you...

“... and it would make it easier to leave you if you were angry with me.”

 

Uneasiness grew with her quietude. Richard couldn’t tell if an explosion or a termination lay immediately ahead. Too late he recalled that her loaded pistol waited patiently for her retrieval in his jacket pocket. He'd never be able to beat her to it with this shoulder.

Her sad smile revealed her selection.

 

“That explains all the arguments and the break-up sex right before the reunion. How does the song go? ‘Break-up to Make up’?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to leave you and I couldn't tell you. I haven’t done this before... I’m not at all good at thinking through this behavior...”

“Do you love me at all, Richard?” Camille demanded.

“YES! My God, Camille, why would you ask me that?”

“Because,” she explained in simple language, “people in love don’t do this to one another.”

 

Sniffling and wiping tears from her cheeks, Camille moved away and exited the tent.

 

“Get some sleep. I’ll check on you in two hours.”


	9. -

**_Rectify_ **

 

Richard searched for Camille when he woke an hour and a half after their most recent discussion. If he were honest with himself it wasn’t an argument - not a Richard-&-Camille argument. She’d let him talk and absorbed his revelations without her normal contextually inaccurate retorts and rebuttals. 

 Whatever emotions she'd invested in his last revelation remained invisible to him despite his desperate search for some indication of her state of mind.

 As cack-handed as Richard could be when expressing himself, Camille’s considerate - and affectionate - medical treatment emboldened him to reveal - _to confess_ \- how this all started and how much he feared her ability to talk him out of the insane plan - leaving her had been the hardest thing he’d _ever_ done up to that point in his life.

Unable to crawl without the use of his arm and shoulder, Richard scooched his butt to the tent zipper and exited through the flap. Once in the cave proper, he negotiated his way onto his knees then stood up and  walked to where she sat next to the fire. 

The flames projected erratic light and shadows across her body; her arms held her legs, her forehead resting on bent knees. With less grace than he’d hoped, Richard lowered himself into a kneeling position near Camille and continued his confession.

 

* * *

  

Scooters, like women, could be temperamental without a knowing hand to coax them into agreement. Dwayne reminded himself of this every time the scooter stalled dangerously close to shutting down or balked at Dwayne’s desire to get off this mountain before the worst of the storm hit. 

Helmet-less and windscreen-less, rain hard enough to sting exposed skin entered every gap between Dwayne’s skin and clothing while the same rain drenched every exposed area.

At the last minute before leaving, he'd had the foresight to “borrow” some plastic wrap from Fidel’s shed. Using the wrap judiciously around the seat and at the bottom of the storage area, Dwayne hoped to divert as much water as possible away from the engine and fuel line he’d slaved over. The extra effort payed off as Dwayne had yet to experience a full-blown, out-and-out shutoff from the scooter he’d nicknamed “Baby Girl”.

At a stout 15 kilometers per hour Dwayne made better progress than walking - but not much. Sunset remained hours into the future but Dwayne found himself in increasing grey that got darker as the storm’s center approached inexorably towards Saint-Marie.   

Dwayne’s weather-sense predicted that the storm would be more intense but of shorter duration than forecasted by the university's meteorological computer and sensors. With his visibility already diminished significantly, Dwayne understood the risks of driving off the road's edge in these conditions. He needed to get closer to the shelter before the artificial darkness caused by the storm fell upon Saint-Marie. 

He also recognized his miscalculation of the number of uphill grades on the mostly downhill road. Each throttle push to pull the scooter up an incline expended petrol Dwayne couldn’t easily replace. When he judged he’d gone half the distance to the shelter, Dwayne pulled over and quickly added additional isopropyl alcohol, reasoning that with this much rain _some_ water had to have violated the scooter’s fuel line despite Dwayne plastic protection.

 

If the scooter failed him, Dwayne estimated it would take him over three hours to reach the shelter on foot in this weather.

 

* * *

 

If the ride on the motorcycle from his home to the shelter frightened Fidel, the return trip to retrieve Dwayne induced something well past fright. Fidel had a host of concerns - after those of finding Dwayne in one piece in the storm.

Fidel’s uncertainty with the motorcycle coming down the hill transitioned into fear of failure as the two-wheeled menace slipped, slid and fishtailed its way up the road. The trip between the fallen tree and the shelter had taken 12 minutes in the runabout, 28 minutes on the motorcycle with Juliet and now took almost 50 minutes. 75% of the distance to Fidel’s house lay ahead of him after he worked his way through the branches of the tree.

 

Fidel suppressed any concern for himself into concern for Dwayne. In his young life, Fidel hadn’t had cause to experience self-sacrifice of the life-and-death variety. Today the “old man” of the station taught his younger colleague a lesson in life and friendship. 

Fidel's mental video looped scenes of Dwayne’s instinctive protection of Fidel's family, of Dwayne's utter disregard for his own safety to the benefit of Juliet and Rosie. He figured Dwayne had a plan in mind to keep himself alive and breathing - Fidel fervently hoped so.

Fidel understood he still had lessons to learn from Dwayne on how to be a better man.

Hopefully, Dwayne himself would teach them.

 

* * *

 

Fidel’s third time through the tree opened cuts trying to heal from trips one and two and created new slices in his exposed skin. Thankfully most of him was covered in borrowed clothes and a poncho. His hands and face still absorbed more souvenirs to add to those of the prior trips. The limited light from the darkened sky complicated attempts to avoid further lacerations to his hands and face but these he overlooked; his discomfort did not match Dwayne’s sacrifice in magnitude or impact. 

By Fidel’s best reckoning, navigating through the tree branches in the increasing dark took the better part of half an hour, far longer than intended. Focused on the job ahead, he’d been a bit careless in protecting himself and sported slits that oozed thin lines of blood. As he was already unseated from the trip through the tree, Fidel took a moment to rinse the blood from his hands and face with rainwater; it wouldn’t do to permanently stain the gift of clothing from neighbors who shared from their basics, not their excess. Remounting the motorcycle, he accelerated and continued towards his home.

With rain pounding on the helmet Dwayne had placed on Rosie, hearing anything - including the pounding of his own heart - had been difficult for Fidel since he started this trek. Climbing uphill fast enough to save Dwayne but slow enough to check for his friend over the edge or on the roadside telescoped his attention.

 

For the best of reasons, Fidel missed the stuttering clamor of the lampless scooter as it crawled up a minor incline of the downhill side. 

 

Dwayne, however, did not miss the sound of his baby coming back to rescue him from out of the storm.


	10. -

**_Revelation - IV_ **

 

“SOCA set up in the Saint-Marie hospital basement,” he began, “with a second team handling the medical preparation for the plan. I spent hours running uphill near the volcano to improve my respiration and to get into better shape. Bloody draining.”

 

Camille wouldn’t have forgotten those “gym” nights when he returned to her too exhausted for lovemaking; she’d thought at the time that he wanted to improve his “performance” to better please her in bed.

 

“I worked out six days a week, as you probably remember. 

“The medical preparation was designed to to increase my oxygen exchange and oxygen efficiency. I had a medication regimen, spent hours in a hyperbaric chamber to super-oxygenate my entire body and they made me learn Buddhist meditation so I had some control over my heart rate and breathing under stress.”


	11. -

**_Remorse_ **

 

“You need to go back to the tent, Richard. You’re shivering.”

“I’m not cold, Camille.”

“It wouldn’t do for you to get worse.” 

“Would it matter to you if I did?”

“I’m here now. I haven’t shut you out even though I told you I’m not ready for this. I don’t know how I feel about this, Richard! I go to a conference and the man I’ve loved more than life - who I buried with my heart on Saint-Marie - walks onto the stage! I’ve never fainted before, Richard!”

“I know, I know.... I tried to contact you before the conference but the conference organizers didn’t have your Paris contact information. Calling you to announce that I was alive just seemed... wrong... and... uncaring. You ran away from me in Paris, Camille -”

“Do you blame me!?”

 

This “Camille” Richard knew well. Small, welcomed rituals from their time before his death were finding their way back into their interchange.

 

“No, I don’t. But how did you expect me to explain when you kept running away from me?”

 

Camille busied herself with placing more wood on the fire. In her lingerie, she put on a headlamp and her now dry socks and boots and disappeared into the night. Seven times she returned soaking wet out of the storm with armloads of big branches and logs. The latrine ended this round of storm activities.

Ignoring Richard’s presence, Camille dried herself with the blanket and changed into her blouse and shorts and out of her wet underwear. Her naked body, slick with rain, made him wish his shoulder were 100%. A repeat of her improvised laundry procedure cleaned her underwear and socks which she hung up on the clothes line. 

 

“It’s bedtime, Richard. You shouldn’t be sitting without support. Come! I’ll help you to the latrine.”

 

Embarrassment accompanied his use of her extended arm to get himself up. Camille steered him to the latrine, waiting a modest distance away in case he needed help. Mentally he was thankful for the small seat; standing then sitting to take care of his toilette remained difficult with one arm and in the dark.

Leaning heavily on her shoulder with his good arm, they made their way back to the tent where Richard’s chest broadcast his fast heartbeat and rib-lifting breathing; his recent exertions exhausted him again. His arm throbbed; Camille noted his instinctive rubbing of the bandage. She opened a box outside of Richard’s view and ripped paper for some unknown purpose.

 

“Swallow these. Here’s a cup of water - drink it all.”

“I don’t like pills.”

“I don’t care what you like; you won’t sleep if you’re in pain. Don’t be difficult; take your medicine like a good boy.”

 

Too tired once again to argue, Richard swallowed the analgesics, finished the water and let her help him into a prone position. She covered his nude body in sleeping bags then laid down and covered herself.

 

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

Within seconds Richard registered her light snoring; he did not wake her to set the chrono, judging that his shoulder felt much better. Right now the best choice for both of them was rest.


	12. -

“Fidel!”

 

In the rain - even with the wind screen down over his face - Fidel almost missed his intended target in the curtain of rain obscuring his vision. To stretch his petrol ration, Dwayne had removed the belt charging the battery, reducing the load on the small engine. Fidel barely registered the waving hand of the drowned individual now coming towards him.

 

“Fidel!”

 

The smeared blob approaching him moved with a pattern that couldn‘t be mistaken for random. For once Fidel wished he was as comfortable with firearms as Camille. Storms often emboldened looters before the worst of the conditions set in. Saint-Marie might be British and no-guns-allowed now but the island had been French and anything-you-conceal for a very long time. He’d have to confront whoever this was and make sure the hill people weren’t losing the valuables they couldn’t afford to replace.

 

“Stop! What’s your business here?”

“I’m trying not to die on this hill on this excuse of a bike!”

“DWAYNE!?”

“In the flesh and soaking. Now get me off this road!”

“Okay-okay! Leave the scooter and climb on!”

“You sure? I can take her the rest of the way down.”

“No, no! We’ll replace it. The storm’s getting worse and we should get through that tree before dark. Climb on the back!”

 

In his entire time with the RSMPF and as a rider of motorized two-wheel vehicles - particularly **_that_** motorized two-wheel vehicle known affectionately as “My Baby” - Dwayne **never** rode shotgun.

Bedraggled, exhausted, drenched - didn’t matter. Poole was chief at the station; Myers was chief on the bike.

 

“Move yourself - my baby needs her daddy! Move!”

 

With a head shake and a smile hidden inside the helmet, Fidel slid backwards on the seat.

 

“Hold on!” Dwayne yelled back as he circled around.

 

Fidel required no reminder of Dwayne's usual driving style and speed. Securing his arms around the older man, Fidel clasped his hands together to ensure he stayed on the motorcycle.

 

“Hey - not so close! Only ladies get to hug me that tight.”

 

* * *

 

Fidel’s heart pounded at the pace Dwayne pushed the motorcycle - ignoring the rain, the sun setting behind the storm clouds and the slick road surface under the slicker tires. Returning to the tree took half the time on the downhill trek that Fidel had taken coming up to rescue his friend. Fidel had never been so happy to see a roadblock in his life: the tree meant they’d have to _walk_ the motorcycle through the branches, providing Fidel a plausible and reasonable reason to get off the two-wheeled death trap and away from the maniac who drove it.

Picking their way through the tree exasperated both and irritated Dwayne literally as the berries from the tree caused a mild contact rash on his unshielded arms and neck. 

 

“Get on.” Dwayne commanded as he straddled his favorite lady once more.

“I’ll take the runabout; I can’t just leave it here.” Fidel countered with mounting relief and gratitude at his good fortune, “And I’m not sure how much fuel is in the motorbike. It’s been running for five hours.”

“More like seven - I had it up in the hills looking for a drug courier. I’ll go down first; if I run out of petrol I can ride with you the rest of the way.”

 

Dwayne kissed his fingertips and laid them on the fuel tank in a soft caress.

 

“C’mon, baby - you’ve never left me stranded yet. I promise you a tankful of the good stuff and a long rest if you get me to the shelter. You know you’re my favorite girl.”

 

Restarting his ride, Dwayne gunned the throttle, challenging Fidel to keep up.

 

* * *

 

The scene before him provoked rib-hurting laughter from Fidel.

Dwayne reposed in the midst of a bevy of ladies responding to his every beck and call. As soon as he entered the gymnasium hugs and kisses covered him while hands led him to dry clothes and warm food. Fidel got a master class in handling the ladies - if Fidel had been single. 

For one straight hour Dwayne regaled star-struck women of all ages with his harrowing escapades to escape the storm and live to spend another day with the beauties of Saint-Marie. Each pair of feminine eyes grew round as saucers, expressed fear and horror, produced salty wetness and resolved into thankfulness and happiness at the survival once again of a true island original. By the tale's end, Dwayne reclined on the softest palette in the gymnasium eating the best cuisine in the school and drinking a quality rum punch - courtesy of the shelter supplies and Dwayne's rescue of the bottle at Fidel’s house. For the punch, Harriet received the best cuddle of the evening from an expert.

When the admiring crowd had been drawn away to tend to their own, Fidel found a seat next to his new/old best friend.

 

“So. I see your ladies are satisfied again. How do you do it?”

“Takes experience, Fidel. I’ve studied the ladies like you study those sergeant books.”

“But they don’t get angry when they know they’re not the only one?”

“Ah! That’s the trick, Fidel. When I’m with each one they _are_ the only one! Do the right thing by them.”

 

“Dwayne...”

 

Dwayne noted the sudden seriousness in Fidel’s tone. Fidel was prone to anxiety-driven confessions, Dwayne recalled. After the day he’d had, Dwayne suspected another such confession was forthcoming.

 

“Come with it. What have you done that needs discussing?”

“Since I got my stripes... Since the Chief died... We’ve been fighting as much as the Chief and Camille.”

“Whoa, boy! No one fights as much as the Chief and his lady, now. And it wasn’t fighting. We just bring different styles to our work. You’re by-the-book and I want to burn the book. You hear what I’m saying? We get the job done - each in his own way. It works for us.”

“Dwayne - you didn’t have to come get me or get my family today. I’m grateful. With the scooter out I couldn’t have gotten them down safely. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You know how to thank me?”

 

Fidel’s head swiveled to look at Dwayne; he’d been staring at the floor.

 

“Spend some time with your family and stop keeping me from my ladies. We’ll have to get back to the station with the Chief and Camille missing in action and I need to soothe them all before we leave. Now go - show me you learned something today.” 

 

Without further delay Dwayne rose to make the rounds of his cuddle mates in the shelter. 

 

With a laugh Fidel sought out Juliet, Rosie and Harriet and steered them to a quiet corner for some tender care.


	13. -

**_Revelation  - V_ **

 

Training and experience overcame fatigue. Four cycles of waking up in two-hour intervals programmed her sleep like an alarm clock. Richard surprised her when she checked his temperature; he captured her hand in his good one and gently stroked the back of it with his thumb. She yanked hers twice but he dug his fingers in - almost painfully - and wouldn’t let go. 

 _Stubborn idiot_ , she told herself; but she did not fail to notice this more assertive and determined Richard Poole. He’d wouldn’t have _dared_ to try this before his murder.

 

“I want you to know... I want to tell you everything. If-If--If our relationship is over, I can accept that... No - actually I can’t but I want you to know what happened and why.

“Part of my training covered the use of this ‘James Bond’ tech they made me carry around and part of the time I worked with a Hollywood Special Effects consultant on loan from the CIA.”

“Special Effects? What were they trying to simulate?”

“My murder. The ‘F-X’ experts - they just use the letters, bloody Yanks ruining the English language everywhere in the world...”

“I get it, Richard.”

“Sorry. It just irks me that they can’t be bothered to pay attention in language class.”

“Yes, Richard.”

 

Thinking him distracted, she yanked her hand again but met with the same stubborn hold.

 

“No more of that for a while; this might be the last time I get this close to you, so behave. The FX gents designed and built my murder suit.”

“Richard, I saw you. You had a regular suit on.”

“Not after leaving the SOCA van. I wore it under my shirt - like a flesh-toned flak jacket.

“The suit - it was a vest, actually - worked like those poison rings European royalty used during the dark ages and the Renaissance. When pressure was applied to the vest, a set of tiny hypodermic needles would emerge and puncture the skin on my chest. That’s how the drugs they used to fake my death were delivered.

“What complicated this vest was the ice pick effect. They had to design a collapsable ice pick that would penetrate the vest but not kill me and a vest that could absorb the blow and hold the ice pick in place. Quite a feat of engineering, if you ask me.”

 

Her words came through before he heard her sobbing softly.

 

“How can you talk about this so calmly? I saw you and my heart stopped. You - our life together vanished!

“What a brutal, _**horrible**_ way to kill you! And you **agreed** to do this!

“Why!? Why would you agree to this... this... **_barbaric_** plan!?”

“To save Saint-Marie.”

 

Soft grunts accompanied his head twisting towards her.

 

“You’re being annoying - yes, I _know_ ; Saint-Marie is being targeted for these processing centers but most of the time they keep to themselves because they don’t want to be found out. Saint-Marie doesn’t need saving!”

 

Panting came through his one ear not muffled by the sleeping bag.

 

“Camille, there’s much about Saint-Marie I would change, if I could. 

“Nothing is on time, here - it’s as if the bloody clocks run at a different rate. Citizens here have an undemocratic preference for seafood - with the eyes still waving on stalks, no less. You’d think with all this vegetation _someone_ would have figured out how to have a few cows and bulls for decent milk. 

“I would’ve said it’s ungodly hot but right now I’m quite comfortable - as long as it’s raining and I’m living in a cave - so I guess I’d have to rescind that complaint.”

“Gee, with all those problems, why did you come back?” she intoned waspishly.

“There are parts of Saint-Marie that I... well... I missed quite a lot,” he told her quietly.

“I missed the sound of the water and the waves at night. I missed you. I missed having friends - including your mother. And I missed having a local to go to with you and my friends. La Kaz means a great deal to me.”

“What’s my mother’s bar got to do with this ridiculous assignment?”

 

Richard hesitated before responding. When the subject involved the Saint-Marie institution known as Catherine Bordey, (in)famous restaurateur and Camille’s mother, words must be carefully chosen before being spoken.

 

“Think about the Pigalle area of Paris before they cleaned it up. Mobsters - as the Yanks call them - came in and bought up the local cash businesses as fronts for their illegal operations.

“La Kaz holds a special place in the community. Getting a foothold on Saint-Marie means ‘acquiring’ La Kaz.”

 

His emphasis on the word ‘acquire’ sent a shiver down her back.

 

“My mother would never sell the bar to gangsters!”

“She would if it meant your safety. I can tell you the Lavender gang had their eyes on it. Think about the facial surgery clinic for a minute; the doctor there had no idea he was being used as a front. It took a murder to expose that. They’d get to Catherine by threatening you and she’d relent - there’s nothing your mother wouldn’t do to keep you safe, Camille.

“I had to do something once SOCA convinced me that La Kaz had been targeted. 

“Your mother’s no innocent, Camille; she grew up in France - not Saint-Marie. Catherine would recognize these ‘businessmen’ as thugs. But as long as you were at risk, she’d have to do what they told her to. I couldn’t let that happen. There’s too much to lose.”

 

The silence that Camille understood as contemplative discomfort continued until Richard located and assembled the words to give to her.

 

“Please don’t tell Catherine.”

“Richard, I don’t keep secrets from my mother. Why don’t you want me to tell her?”

 

 _Why indeed_...

 

* * *

 

Weeks and weeks ago Richard and the Commissioner arrived back in Saint-Marie from the conference ahead of Camille. He’d been met by a coterie of well-wishers. Camille obviously texted her mother that Richard Poole had returned from the dead and CatherineNet accomplished the rest.

Catherine hosted a gathering to provide the community  (who’d missed their irascible Chief of Police) an opportunity to express gratitude for his return. The soirée also gave poor DI Humphrey Goodman a chance to wrap his mind around resurrection Poole-style and the reality that he’d need to apply for a new position within the Met.

It was afterward as Catherine and Richard stood alone, cooling themselves under the light outside the rear door of the restaurant, that they got reacquainted.

 

“Thank you for... all... this, Catherine. It’s all been somewhat overwhelming.”

“Most of Saint-Marie is pleased that you’ve returned.”

“Yes... Well... I’m aware that I have ground to cover with Camille. She escaped my -”

 

His relaxed stature meant the slap to his face spun his head and left him with a raging headache and a red handprint throbbing and swelling on his face. Stars from the slap mingled with the ones in Saint-Marie’s clear skies.

 

“That is for what you did to my daughter! You and your ‘duty’. You HURT her, RIchard!”

“I’m trying... I know.. She won’t **_talk_** to me, Catherine!”

“She’s been talking to your **grave** stone for almost a year. I’m sure it must be difficult for her to talk to a dead man who talks back! You should have told her, Richard! You should have trusted her!” 

“I **COULDN’T** Catherine! This needed handling and I **HANDLED** **IT**!... I can’t make this right if she won’t _talk_ to me!”

“She lost so much when you ‘died’, Richard. You have no idea how much you both lost...”

“I don’t understand...”

 

Fury drained from Catherine Bordey while Richard warily eyed her in the light of the lamp over the door.

 

“No, she isn't talking to you so I guess you wouldn’t...”

 

Camille’s mother stared at Richard longer than he preferred before she spoke again. He’d braced himself for another slap; to his utter shock, Catherine held the hand not rubbing his face.

 

“I forgive you, Richard, but I will not forget what you’ve done to my little girl. While you saved the world from ‘whatever’, she went through it all alone. It was hard for her to love again after Robert.

“You’ve got a second chance. Take _care_ of my girl - and do it correctly this time or I will have **you** taken care of. Go home before I change my mind.”

 

They reentered the restaurant together so Richard could retrieve his jacket. Catherine followed him to the main door; she would lock up once he left. 

He hesitated in the doorway, slowly rotating his head to face her. Something should be said, his befuddled brain told him. An error this huge required some greater... _something_ than just his silent escape from the restaurant but Richard had no model for how to respond. 

The key to unraveling all of this lay with Camille - Richard understood little of what Catherine alluded to but knew, with the few interpersonal relationship skills he’d learned, that Camille’s struggles after his death went beyond mere grief.

 

“I love her, Catherine...”

“I know,” Catherine granted, not unkindly, “but you’ll have to earn her love - and her trust - back.  She won’t give it to you so easily this time. Bon soir, gendre.”

 

* * *

 

Memory of his encounter with Catherine fading from his eyes, Richard composed an answer he hoped would satisfy Camille. It provided at least a partial truth.

 

“I don’t want her - or you, for that matter - living afraid. I don’t want her to spend years looking over her shoulder. I want her life to be much like it has always been.”

 “Is she safe?” 

“I think so. Some clever ruses used during the task force make La Kaz less... desirable... shall we say?”

 

Some number of months would turn into an equivalent number of years before Richard admitted to the artifice he'd used to save La Kaz.

Underworld figures throughout Europe and the Caribbean noted the transfer of a minority ownership in La Kaz from Catherine Bordey to a trust held by the MacLoughlin syndicate - a new, sophisticated and ruthless crime family with leadership out of the U.K. and the U.S.

A syndicate whose leadership was covertly shared by SOCA and the Yank's CIA.

The carefully constructed "official" documents trail ensured Catherine's and Camille's safety regardless of Richard's lifespan; it was his first and finest piece of deception - even SOCA and the CIA didn't realize it had all been meticulously faked by Richard Poole. 

 

Camille chose not to ask who implemented these “ruses”. Anger and love warred in her mind: How should she feel about a man who would protect her mother but shatter his lover's heart at the same time?


	14. -

**_Release_ **

 

All the water and tea had made their way to his bladder and release was urgent. Turning with a slight groan, he tried to crawl over her and failed. Clumsy in his balance he collapsed on her twice before her irritation forced communications once again.

 

“Richard! Where are you going? It’s the middle of the night and you’ve only just stopped shaking.”

“To the facilities. You can’t force feed liquids down a man’s throat for hours and not expect him to require the facilities.”

“Let me help -”

“Camille! I’ve been holding my own todger since I was two!”

 

Camille dissolved into body-wiggling laughter, causing Richard to collapse atop her again.

 

“That's a picture! Toddler Richard standing at the commode armed with his wee willy! That is **_so_** funny!”

“Stop shaking me or you’ll be sleeping in wee!”

 

Still jiggling with mirth, Camille wriggled out from under him and assisted him out of the tent. The laughing fit continued as his naked body straightened - until a fierce frown shut her down to poorly hidden giggles. His mood restrained her desire to accompany him  - which was a good thing. 

Standing over the latrine to relieve himself, Richard replayed his clumsy exit in his mind. Laying there atop her had stirred his body; his growing response to her slowed the flow of urine considerably. As she had placed his clothes near the fire to dry, he’d have to wait before going back inside. With the issues still before them he had no intention of presenting himself to her in an aroused and ready state. 

When his tumescence receded, Richard sought out his underwear in the cave. He’d stopped shaking sometime in the last four hours and was beginning to feel more like himself when his shoulder didn’t send pain alerts through his nervous system.  

He found Camille next to the fire checking on the laundry. She’d laundered everything but his still-clean jacket while he slept and hung them next to her own clothes on the line. Proximity awoke familiar sensations, forcing him to snatch his briefs off the line as he covered himself with his hand - a hand that was fast becoming too small to cover everything.

 

“How did you handle it?” he prodded, “My death.”

“What do you want me to say? That it hurt? That I cried until tears wouldn't come? That I visited your grave every single day for three months even though your body was buried in England? 

“How did SOCA pull that off? Your mother would have told me if no body arrived for burial.”

“SOCA lied to her.”

“Ah! There’s a surprise.” 

 

Sarcasm left a dripping path from her mouth to his ears.

 

“They told my parents that I was in parts because of what had to be done during the autopsy to determine cause of death and provide evidence for the trial.”

 

The mental image of a vivisected Richard horrified her; she missed his one-armed struggle, without her help, to get his briefs on and pulled over his partial erection.

 

“Oh mon DIEU, that’s _HORRIBLE_! No wonder your mother was so upset!”

 

With a last tug of his underwear, Richard fell backwards onto the ground. Gritting his teeth against the jarring pain, he congratulated himself on getting decent then awkwardly placed himself in a sitting position.

 

“Yes, that part was hard...”

 

Camille shot him a look as he reclined near the fire to rest his shoulder, but said nothing.

 

“So my ‘remains’ were sent directly to the family funeral home. Closed casket.”

“Whose remains were they?”

“What do you mean?”

“Any competent undertaker would recognize human remains. SOCA wouldn’t want there to be any questions; whose remains were they?”

“I... I don’t know. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until you brought it up... Probably should apologize to mum straight away.”

 

The topic of “mother” leaping through her associative memory, she spoke into the distance between them. 

 

“Maman caught the worst of it...”

“I see you’ve moved back to the apartment over La Kaz. Why is that?”

 

During a particularly relaxing evening they’d discussed moving in together to save money for a house. That consideration precipitated an argument that lasted for days, Camille wanting to progress to a relationship everybody publicly recognized and Richard insisting they resolve the fraternization issue before going “public”.

 

“Because we spent _all_ our time together at mine. 

“I haven’t been back since your memorial service. Maman packed for me and Dwayne and Fidel transported the boxes. 

“My lease isn’t up for months so I can’t really leave it yet...”

 

Her reasons to leave were his reasons to stay. 

Richard’s best memories of the last 20 years were all contained in that house. Leaving would mean they’d have to repair their relationship at his beach shack - where anyone might show up - or in her room at her mother’s restaurant. While the apartment over the restaurant held ample space, the idea of Catherine listening to them work through their challenges - or worse, overhearing them during noisy make-up sex - chilled him to tremors.

 

“I take it Humphrey treated you well?”

“He was very kind. I tried to be professional at work. Of course he was thoroughly confused why I became a wreck when you died. 

“I must be cursed. How many women fall in love with men they work with and have them murdered twice?”

 

Her hands flew around with her emotions. Her palms forced stubborn tears out when she rubbed her eyes. 

Richard understood why this impacted her so deeply: her fiancé had been murdered during a deep cover assignment. When he and SOCA had fine-tuned their plan, he'd underestimated the impact that experience would have on her.

Remorse drove him to place his good arm around her, crossing the barrier she’d erected since his resurrection - which Camille gently pushed away.

 

“My fault. It came up in the planning; SOCA does have a dossier on you.”

“I hope you didn’t do it on purpose. You knew what happened with Robert and you let them put me through it all over again. 

“I kept a box of your things, like I did Robert’s... I would sleep with your tie, your jacket - anything that smelled like you and reminded me of being with you. I wore one of your shirts; I... I... would spray your after shave on it.

“Your death destroyed me, Richard. I can’t love you any more - I can’t lose you again. It hurts! It hurts too much...”


	15. -

Fidel circled the office pleased that the repairs done after the hurricane kept the rain outside the station. Rain storms of this magnitude often took out the phones but affected power not as frequently, the reason for Dwayne’s improving mood as he freshened up in the bathroom and changed into dry clothing. The calming scent of his own aftershave wafting upward convinced him that all would be well with time - even Camille and the Chief.

Fidel made use of Dwayne’s sartorial improvement time by switching on all of the lights and ceiling fans. Circling each desk, he confirmed the state of the computers and turned each on except Camille’s. Camille had a fairly sophisticated setup to serve her bosses in Saint-Marie and elsewhere; she’d hurt him physically if he damaged any of her equipment. Instead, he shook Camille’s mouse and the systems sprang to life on the screen. The noise outside the station caught Fidel's attention and he left to investigate.

Dwayne exited the facilities to find the station empty. A perplexed rub of his chin was all the time he spared for consideration of Fidel’s whereabouts. After what they'd experienced together today, Fidel’s judgment could be trusted. Rounding his own desk, Dwayne sat down to start the search for his missing boss when sounds from the station porch diverted his attention. 

Fidel’s absence from the station became self-explanatory when the younger sergeant entered the station for the second time that day loaded down with boxes of prepared meals courtesy of Catherine Bordey.

 

“From La Kaz?”

“Yes,” Fidel grinned back at him, “Catherine came by while you were changing clothes. I drove with her in the runabout to get the food. She’s worried about the Chief and Camille, Dwayne; word of the hostage situation at the school made it down the mountain.”

“Probably worried that they’ll kill each other and the mud will hide the bodies. And this is Catherine were speaking of - sees all, knows all.”

“Father Dean said the Chief was headed to the little hill school.” Dwayne recapped, eyes reading the notes left on Richard’s desk.

“Did Camille go with him? She was none too pleased with him when I left on the bike - not that she ever is nowadays.” Dwayne added.

“She was at the school with him. Some of the nuns from the school were at the shelter. Chief made them leave to take shelter before the worst of the storm. They saw Camille.”

“So you think the Chief is dead again?” Dwayne asked, only half joking.

 

With a bark of laughter reminiscent of their former relationship, Fidel grinned at the astute observation.

 

“No, she won’t kill him. She loves him. If she didn’t she wouldn’t want to kill him.”

“And since when did you figure out the female mind?” Dwayne asked, impressed with Fidel’s advanced reasoning concerning women.

 

The sheepish smile gave him away.

 

“Juliet explained it to me.

 

Dwayne chuckled at Juliet’s shrewd analysis while laying the buffet out with Fidel. Catherine would be cooking as long as she had ingredients and electricity; right now Saint-Marie residents who didn’t make it back to their homes in the hills were staying at La Kaz. Catherine had stacked chairs and table out of the way to make room for small “picnic”-style areas where families sat on the floor and enjoyed meals and drinks. 

Filling themselves with hot, savory goodness - and rum punch - courtesy of Catherine Bordey, both officers relaxed back into their easy working relationship.

 

“Dwayne... I want to thank you again for today. For getting my family off that hill safely.”

 

Dwayne shot a look over his mug of punch, scowling with mild displeasure at the gratitude and seriousness in Fidel’s expression. He thought they’d handled this at the shelter.

 

“And what did you expect? That I’d leave you out there to catch your death then court Juliet? We’re friends, man. That’s what we do.”

“It’s been different -”

 

Dwayne interrupted the coming emotional declaration. Dwayne Myers did not deal in sentiment and he wasn’t going to sit through any expressions of it now, not when such actions would ruin the effects of a good meal and some great rum punch.

 

“Last year’s been a doozy. You get your stripes. Chief leaves and comes back. Camille comes around and starts cuddling the Chief. A little while later the Chief is dead - we think. DI Goodman comes to take over for the Chief and falls in love with Camille. Camille sees her long lost daddy again. Camille rejoins the National Police Force, finds the Chief’s alive and won't talk to him. They come back here acting like Tom and Jerry and we have to work around the fight they’re not having.

“You and me? We’re fine - no troubles between us, eh? Now let’s find our Chief and his lady before they kill each other.”

 

Fidel grinned at Dwayne’s reduction of a complicated year to a few short sentences. 

 

“Dwayne, look at this map - here’s the school -” Fidel pointed at the display.

“If they got there in the afternoon, it would have taken how long to take the kidnapper into custody?”

 

Dwayne stared at the satellite map before responding.

 

“Were any of the nuns from the hill school in the shelter when you got there in the runabout?”

“Some. Why?”

“I’ve known a few nuns - not THAT way, Fidel!” Dwayne protested to Fidel’s smile.

“You met Elodie - I mean Sister Marguerite. If it’d been anyone, it would have been her. I don’t go around spoiling the brides of Christ. No, the nuns wouldn’t have left the school until they knew the children were safe. I’m sure I saw the headmistress at the shelter when we left to come here.”

“She was there; I spoke to her.”

“Alright.” Dwayne went on, “We know that whatever happened at the school ended in time for the headmistress to make it down that mountain. So why aren’t the Chief and Camille here?”

“Something went wrong -”

 

Fidel darted around the desk to the weapons cabinet.

 

“Camille’s pistol is gone. She took some of the clips with her.”

“Any other pistols gone?”

“No, you know the Chief doesn’t like to use one.”

 

One pistol gone - Camille’s, of course.  Leaning back against the desk, Dwayne crossed his arms across his chest, head bowed and eyes following the lines in the floor.

 

“Well, I guess we should notify Catherine now.” he sighed.

 

Fidel’s expression could not communicate confusion any better.

 

“Think, Fidel! Camille is somewhere holed up with the Chief and she’s got a loaded pistol with her. Chief’s gonna be dead for real.”

 

After a good laugh, both brains returned to solving the “Where’s the Chief?” puzzle.

 

“Okay. So they capture the kidnapper, right?”

 

Dwayne didn’t follow Fidel’s conclusion and said so - “How do you know that?”

 

“Because,” Fidel reasoned aloud, “if the Chief or Camille had been hurt, the headmistress would have told Father Dean. They must have captured the perpetrator. What would keep them from coming back to the station?”

“If _they’re_ not hurt... maybe the kidnapper? Maybe Camille took them out?”

“No-no-no, Dwayne. If she’d killed the suspect they would’ve come straight back. No need to delay if the suspect is dead. They’d put everybody else in the Rover and come back here. You know how the Chief hates it when the station is empty -”

“You mean ‘unmanned’, don’t you?” Dwayne interjected.

 

Both men chuckled knowingly at their obsessive-compulsive boss.

 

“You think somebody - not the Chief or Camille - got hurt up there and delayed them coming back.”

“Yes. Think about it, Dwayne: it took almost three hours for me to retrieve Juliet and Rosie from my house.”

“Yah, and it took another hour and a half for me to get myself down that hill on that scooter and meet you coming up on the bike. By the way, I’ll replace the scooter; in that rain it won’t be reliable again. You don’t want your ladies on it.”

“Dwayne, it’s okay. The insurance will cover it.”

“Good. On my wages it would’ve been a while.”

“What would keep them on that mountain with the storm coming?” Fidel mused out loud, mimicking Richard Poole’s analysis technique.

“Someone got hurt.” Dwayne reiterated.

 

Solving the mystery of the Chief’s disappearance Poole-style invigorated Dwayne. He acknowledged his own skills in information gathering but often felt slow on the uptake in these brain sessions at the white board.

 

“Good, good! Let’s write that down.” he directed Fidel, like the old days.

 

Moving over to the whiteboard, Fidel found a small area clear of Richard’s notes and wrote “Injury?”.

 

“What else?”

“Hey! You’re the sergeant now, use those brains.”

“Okay, okay!... I got it!  There’s trees covering roads all over the hills.”

“And mud and people’s houses.” Dwayne added.

“So maybe they killed the suspect -”

“Maybe Camille killed the suspect -” Dwayne corrected.

“- and they started back but the road was blocked somewhere between the school and the station.”

“Good. Write that down.” Dwayne encouraged whilst nudging Fidel’s shoulder towards the whiteboard.

“What if the suspect was hurt? What if Camille didn’t kill them?”

“Camille knows this island almost as well as I do. The hospital is closer - see?”

 

Dwayne pointed to paved roads accessible from the little school before continuing.

 

“But the convent’s faster if you take the plantation and mining roads.” he added, recapitulating the reasoning Camille might use.

“So they could be at the convent or the hospital.” Fidel concluded.

“My bet’s on the convent. Camille wouldn’t let the Chief drive in this rain. Doesn’t know the island well enough. Plus she gets pretty steamed at him when he ignores the storm warnings. Remember after the hurricane?” Dwayne added for context.

“So let’s go get -”

“Whoa, Boy! Look outside.”

 

Rain beyond sheets and buckets tumbled out of the night sky. Grey day had passed into a moonless night lit only by the street and station lights. Beyond the porch, from the marketplace to the hills, most of the island sat in unremitting darkness.

 

“Can’t navigate those hill roads in this. We barely made it through in daylight, or don’t you remember having to rescue your family? Get some sleep. The Rover’s got a survival kit and Camille’s got a good head on her shoulders.”  

“What about the Chief?” Fidel interjected, worry for his boss clearly evident.

“He got himself killed, didn’t he? Chief’s got Camille - and she’s got a loaded pistol;" Dwayne reminded his young friend, "she’ll keep them safe and sound until we can get there. We’ll start searching at first light.”

 


	16. -

**_Revelation  - VI_ **

 

Richard gave her space but stayed by her side. Camille busied herself with tending the laundry and the fire. Eventually she rejoined him, staring at the fire. 

This Camille was unreadable to Richard, distant yet kind and caring towards him. Reasoning, the only skill he could apply to the situation, told him she still loved him. Rejection and Richard were old friends - this wasn’t rejection. But he owed her an apology, an explanation and whatever it would take to heal her heart.

Her voice startled him when she asked - 

 

“How did this all work? How did you and SOCA pull this off?”

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

 

Her answer came with a sigh.

 

“Yes. Tell me.”

“SOCA accomplished my ‘murder’ by loading the vest with a rather wicked combination of neurotoxins. The vest, a clever design if you ask me, delivered the chemicals into my chest and absorbed most of the impact from the ice pick. The ice pick and the vest had small electromagnets imbedded to ensure the ice pick stayed planted in the fabric.”

“You’ve told me this.”

“Right, right.

“After some serious discussions and arguments, the SOCA toxo-pharmacologist decided to use a combination of Saxitoxin, Curare and Sparteine.”

“Shellfish poison?”

 

On an island where nearly all the food served had eyes, it figured that Camille would identify the toxin from a fish well-known in Caribbean waters.

 

“Yes. Saxitoxin acts on the sodium channels of nerve cells. Electrical signals pass through nerves using sodium. If sodium is blocked, there’s no nerve transmission; the victim is paralyzed.”

 

Richard restrained himself from holding her when she shivered at his explanation.

 

“More?” 

“I want to know. Continue.”

 

She missed his smile; Camille easily won his award for toughest girlfriend on the planet.

 

“The second ingredient was Curare. I’m sure you’re aware of its use in Central and South America. Curare slows the heart rate and respiration until the victim dies.

“The final constituent in this witch’s brew was Sparteine -”

“I’ve never heard of that one.  What does it do?”

“It’s an alkaloid derived from the scotch broom plant that’s used as an anti-arhythmic. The goal of the formula was to slow my heart rate and respiration to almost nil but not turn them off. 

“The medicines were inserted into the jacket in flat breakable vials with tiny needles in the end. By using different needle lengths the medics controlled the sequence the toxins were administered in - curare first to slow my heart and breathing, then saxitoxin as the paralytic and finally the sparteine to keep my heart from going erratic. 

“The goal of all that training and oxygen exchange medical intervention was to boost my oxygen efficiency so that my brain wouldn’t die during the post-murder forensic procedure. 

“I spent weeks in that basement facility with them testing different formulations on me to see which ones bought the most time with the least risk.”

“So those prick marks on your arms and chest weren’t insect bites.”

 

He’d lied to her about that and let her slather him in calamine lotion more times than he could count. The upside was she always felt sorry that insects found him so appetizing and gave him an extra special after dinner “gift”.

 

“Um... Sorry, no.”

“SOCA’s training included teaching you to lie very effectively.”

“I don’t lie as a habit!”

“Don’t apologize.” she told him, “A good deep cover agent has to lie convincingly. It can keep you alive. That’s probably the first thing Robert taught me. Go on - I don’t want to argue over it. Just don’t lie to me again unless it’s about a surprise present or something like that.”

 

Richard let the illogic of her last statement go unchallenged. At least she implied some kind of a future where he gave her presents.

 

“SOCA personnel were all over the reunion area. They had a medical van in the hills hidden nearby - five-minute arrival time tops, in a fake private ambulance. When Fidel called for a bus, the call got routed to that ambulance.”

“Fidel noticed their arrival time; Dwayne said it was because you were the victim so they made good time.”

“All of the catering and service staff were SOCA. The ice pick I’ve explained -”

“Twice.” she interrupted, to his irritation.

“The ice pick itself,” he continued stiffly, “was fully extended when in use as an ice pick.  The button-activated spring would compress to give the impression it was imbedded deeply into my chest - Camille!”

 

This time he grabbed her as she swooned with lightheadedness.

 

“We’re not getting out of here tonight. Let’s get some sleep. My shoulder feels much better and I’m much warmer thanks to the fire and my underwear.”

“I see you’ve gone back to briefs. I’m glad.”

“Why????...” he inquired, eyeing her nervously.

“Do you remember why I encouraged you to wear boxers?”

“Something about roominess, as I recall.”

“Yes. With your particular gifts, getting you out of briefs took too much effort.”

“But why does that make you happy?”

“Because briefs mean no one but you has been using that opening.”

 

Chuckling at his embarrassment, Camille forced another 8 ounces of water down his throat and administered another dose of the analgesic. 

She released and rewrapped his arm and shoulder into a more comfortable position. She didn’t like the color of his lower arm and hand; the separation might be constricting blood flow. In the daytime when they had more light she’d have to decide whether to fix that shoulder. 

In deference to his improvement she allowed him to sleep near the tent flap to ease getting up for latrine visits. Declaring his hypothermia scare over she didn’t reset the clock for two hours; both needed some real sleep.

 

One hour later they slept, Camille spooned behind Richard with her arm draped over his bandaged arm. They’d started their sleep under separate covers.

Neither of them noticed; they slept peacefully through the night.


	17. -

**_Resourcefulness_ **

 

On Day 2 of "Camille's Survival Camp for Resurrected Chief Inspectors", the sound of pots scraping on rocks near dawn woke Camille; the absence of Richard in the tent sent her into near hysteria.

 

While she slept, Richard had done some reconnoitering on his own and implemented his “I’m not helpless” rehabilitation plan. He’d searched the Rover and located the third small case of emergency rations. Sleeping soundly after her exertions of the day before, Camille missed his triumphant shout at locating the stash of powdered eggs and oatmeal. Afterwards, he explored the area outside the cave to get his bearings and to retrieve anything of use.

In preparation for his next efforts he’d dragged the catchment reservoir in and filtered enough water to fill the clean reservoir. Replacing the catchment reservoir (although he suspected they had plenty of clean water now that the laundering had been completed), he’d dressed himself in his pants, shirt and socks. His shoes were beyond use as leather tends to hate water and he’d thoroughly soaked his in water _and_ mud yesterday. He’d worn his khakis and a cotton Oxford shirt that held up well to his mistreatment and Camille’s wilderness laundering methods. The khakis had some mud stains but were certainly salvageable with a proper cleaning.

Using salt from the MREs and clean water he created an abrasive to scrub his teeth with, being careful not to swallow that much salt water; battered parts of him were swollen enough without fluid retention from salt. The Meals-Ready-to-Eat - "MREs", as the commandos called them - they’d consumed last night included peppermint candies so he sucked on two of these to freshen his breath.

Feeling more on top of things with clothes on, he rebuilt the fire more efficiently - huge piles of big logs towards the back to heat the cave’s rock walls and small wood to the front to allow for controlled temperatures for cooking and heating water for tea.

Being Richard he had, of course, reheated the large camp pot of water and enjoyed several cups of tea already. Scrounging in the other MRE boxes he located the coffee he suspected would be there; further interactions with Camille would go much more smoothly if he rectified her caffeine withdrawal. 

Richard’s setup for the fire rocks allowed him to keep the water pot on a low simmer without much attention. Calculating the evaporation rate while he prepared breakfast, he projected they’d have to refill it every 4 to 5 hours, a reasonable timeframe for ever-present hot water.

His shoulder pain improved only a little during the night so he rummaged almost silently through the first aid kit and found a stronger analgesic. As the poisoning level for these analgesics was well above doubling the dose, he swallowed double the dose and found himself much more chipper when relief kicked in. It wouldn’t do to have Camille fretting over him whilst he was being productive.

 

Her shadow, cast in the rain-muted early morning light from the cave entrance, alerted him that she approached his spot.

 

“Good morning, Sergeant! Up for some breakfast?”

 

The sight before her challenged her conclusion that she was indeed awake.  

In pans set on the rocks, sizzling and making wonderful aromas, Richard prepared scrambled eggs, oatmeal and fried plantains. In one of the spare mugs he’d sliced bananas for the oatmeal; these sat next to small packets of sugar, salt and pepper scavenged from last night’s MREs. 

At her querulous glance he explained the fruit.

 

“I did some scouting around the cave; the plantain and banana bunches had fallen from the trees.”

“You shouldn’t be doing all this! How is your shoulder feeling?”

 

Thanks to the pain killers, he had no reason to use those recently acquired SOCA-trained lying skills.

 

“Quiet and comfortable thanks to your expert nursing yesterday. Thank you, Camille. It’s more than I could have expected.”

 

She cried again, confusing him all the more. Rocking back and forth in his kneeling position, uncertain whether to comfort her or to leave her in peace for a moment more, Richard decided coffee and food were priorities to getting her stable enough to speak with.

 

“I have coffee for you, if you’re ready for some. I left a cup of water and a salt packet in the Rover - it’s a handy substitute for a toothbrush and toothpaste. And I left the mints we didn’t eat on the seat with them. 

“The box of tissue from the Rover is empty. I found toilet paper in the kit. 

“It’s not kind to tender skin.”

 

Camille burst out laughing and headed for the Rover to freshen up.

 

When she returned, he’d laid out their breakfast spread near the fire and placed first servings on their plates. They ate in companionable silence although Richard missed their normal morning patter. There were no leftovers.

Because he’d cooked, Camille barred him from clean-up duty. She smiled appreciatively at his filling of the clean water reservoir and used a combination of heated and cool water to wash their dishes and pots. She inverted the cleaned dishes and sat them on cooler rocks to dry.

Done with breakfast, Camille left the cave to check the storm situation. Day 2 held forth the promise of more heavy rain and no chance to get the Rover down the hill safely so she changed into her underwear again and made several mad dashes for firewood - only to find the pile stacked halfway up the cave wall.

 

“You collected firewood this morning?”

“Yes. I thought the storm might get worse so best to gather when we can.”

“But your clothes - they’re not wet or drying.”

 

Richard-red color ran up his neck and flushed his cheeks. It had been more than a year since Richard Poole had evidenced this response in front of her.

 

“Yes... I went out unclothed.”

 

Camille chuckled at his discomfort with the word “naked”.

 

“You mean you went out naked?”

“I believe I said that, Camille.”

“No - you said unclothed. I asked you if you meant naked.”

“You’re right; I did say unclothed.”

“So?” she pushed him, mirth nearly breaking free of her control.

“So what?”

“Did you go out naked?”

“Draw whatever conclusion you need to. I will not satisfy your desire to force me to  embarrass myself.”

 

She waited a beat to get the timing right then poked him again.

 

“Why didn’t you wake me? I would have enjoyed seeing a man naked first thing.”

 

Body-shaking laughter broke free and she crouched on the floor overcome by it in fits and waves. She hadn’t laughed - not this freely - since his “incident” (since she could no longer call it his “death” or “murder”). She hurt with the use of muscles long ignored but she couldn’t stop - didn’t _want_ to stop - while it felt so good.

 

Then the sobbing came. Hysterical, jarring, hollow sobs that brought him to her and her into his arms. This time she had no strength to fight him or push him away. Emotions controlled her beyond her ability to manage and she surrendered to them.

Most of her babbling during the crying jag came out in French but she interspersed enough English for Richard to understand the raw feelings and images cascading through her head:

 

“How can you love me and do this to me?...

“...A YEAR! We lost a YEAR together...

“...Why do all the men I love LEAVE me!? First Pa-pa, then Robert then **you**...

“...How can I love you when you don’t trust me?...

“...Please don’t leave me, Richard!...

“God, I LOVE you Richard Poole, you brilliant jackass!...

“...You could have DIED for real!”

 

At this last utterance, shouted in his face almost two hours after her outburst brought them closer, Richard reluctantly pulled away from her and prepared for his next confession.

 

She needed to know just how close he came to dying while she stood in full view grieving his death at the murder scene. 


	18. -

**_Revelation - VII_ **

 

“You should know that I actually did die before they revived me.”

“Isn’t that what those ‘toxins’ were supposed to do?”

“Not really. They were supposed to fool our team into _thinking_ I was dead. The plan was to have the SOCA team in the ambulance revive me after the crime scene forensics were done. For some reason, our team took longer to complete the evidence gathering than they have on any other case. The SOCA medics coded me once in the ambulance and twice at the hospital.”

“Coded? What does that mean?”

“Declared me dead - heart stopped and no respira-”

 

Camille keened, a sound Richard would avoid causing for the rest of their lives together. 

 

“Camille," he said softly, "it wasn’t the team’s fault. That overenthusiastic shill Sasha - I mean Helen - got aggressive when it came time to use the ice pick." he explained, warming to the subject,  "Thank God for the vest and the blood packs in it or that ice pick would have skewered my heart. After the hours and hours of practice jamming the bloody thing into my chest you’d think she’d -”

“RICHARD!” Camille shrieked at his insensitive description.

“Yes, um, sorry... You know how I _hate_ incompetent execution. Helen slammed the ice pick into the vest too fast and too hard. Instead of the vials breaking in the sequence we’d worked out, they sort of all smashed at once and flooded my body with toxins. I experienced the strangest kind of ‘locked in’ symptoms. I could hear and see everyone around me but I couldn’t move a muscle. Surreal, really... By the time the team arrived, all the medications, the higher oxygenation levels and the Buddhist meditation techniques were nearing the end of their usefulness. Since I was going to die anyway I decided I might as well relax. It saved my life.”

“Because you stopped fighting death!? Why was that better? That makes no sense!”

 

Feeling emboldened, he slowly slid his hand into hers.

 

“It does if you think about it scientifically and not metaphysically. When I stopped fighting and relaxed I lowered the ‘load’, so to speak, on my heart and lungs. Gave me enough reserve to get me into the ambulance with my brain still functioning.

“That’s not true.”

“That’s exactly what happened, Camille.”

“No! Your brain was NOT functioning! No one with a FUNCTIONING brain would do something so STUPID and DANGEROUS! No one with a BRAIN and a HEART would sit there and ‘observe’ me going THROUGH THAT!”

 

Forcing himself to maintain eye contact, shutting down years of automatic responses to shame and embarrassment, he responded to her accusation.

 

“It’s possible,” he almost whispered, “that you’re right. I saw you hurting. If I wasn’t paralyzed I would have sacrificed the whole operation for you. When you held onto Dwayne, crying, I wanted to... to... comfort you and tell you it would be fine. I couldn’t move - which saved the mission.”

“And broke my heart into tiny useless pieces.”

 

Sniffing noisily, she wiped her nose on his shirt sleeve and removed her hand from his as she put some space between them.

 

“The doctors back at hospital put it all to rights,” he continued since he had few other options, “and they med-evac’d me out to keep the doctors in hospital here from doing an autopsy on me. Dr. Casper Gentili is still spitting nails over that. When we landed in Guadeloupe SOCA shoved a fake passport and a suitcase of used clothing in my size at me and I boarded a flight to Brazil.”


	19. -

**_Reset_ **

 

Richard observed her carefully and made a decision.

 

“If it’s alright with you Camille, I’d like to take a kip [nap]. I’m feeling a bit knackered. I’ll prepare lunch when I wake up.”

“No. You cooked breakfast. I’ll take care of lunch.”

“It’s not a competition, Camille. I thought you’d want to rest.”

“You’re the one with the dislocated shoulder but I should rest? Why? Because women don’t handle stress - or _death -_ as well as men!?”

“Camille that’s not what I said. In fact -” he shouted, warming to their old fighting style, “I STARTED this by saying **_I_** was knackered - a state of fatigue only increased by having this argument with YOU. My shoulder hurts! I’m going to bed! You are welcome to join me to -”

“NO WAY am I having SEX with YOU! I don’t care if Le Satan himself sent you back from ENFER as an EXPERT in the KAMA SUTRA!”

“Camille - LOOK AT ME! I am black and bloody BLUE ALL OVER. If you _touched_ me I would seriously try to physically restrain you and most definitely FAIL! As I was TRYING to say, you are welcome to join me for a NAP or even a CUDDLE if it will REDUCE THE NOISE. And WHERE ARE THE BLOODY PAIN PILLS!?” he shouted, floundering around in the first aid kit.

“Do you really hurt that badly?” she asked sympathetically.

 

 _Who_ ** _is_** _this French woman!?_ Richard fumed as she interfered with his pursuit of pain relief.

 

 “No - this is just a great charade for your amusement and my humiliation. Yes, I HURT. Now if you’ll stop HELPING me I can do something about this pain!”

 

Her hands released the clamps on his stretch wrap and tenderly removed the fabric to get a better look at his shoulder.

 

“Your arm is a bit blue. I think the dislocation is pinching off the blood supply somewhere in your shoulder. We should fix this, Richard.”

 

Richard's trapped animal stare communicated as well as any words his terror at having her doctor his shoulder beyond basic first aid.

 

“I have training. Sûreté and Interpol agents get more than basic first aid courses. A lot of our interdictions occur in Africa and Asia - we can’t count on competent medical treatment.

“I can fix this for you. I think you should if you don’t want to lose this arm to gangrene.”

 

Centered in his well-being, Camille found an anchor to the present and not the horrors he’d revealed about his recent past.

 

“You can do this?” 

 

Her revelation brought another astonishing discovery to him about his partner.

She shrugged off his surprise.

 

“It’s a simple dislocation. Do you have a wonky shoulder? Has this ever happened before?”

“I injured my shoulder at boarding school - got blindside tackled by the class bully. One of the class bullies - school seemed to recruit them for scholarships. I don’t remember them saying it was dislocated but they put me in a brace and called my parents to take me to a specialist.”

“That probably loosened the ligaments. It will make it easier to slip back into the socket but afterward you’ll need to be wrapped and keep a sling on until the swelling goes down. Do you trust me not to do anything to hurt you intentionally, Richard?”

 

After his most recent discourse, that was the £1M question.

 

“I don’t think you’ll hurt me intentionally. I -”

“What’s worrying you, Richard?”

“You’ve been somewhat... rash... lately...”

“You don’t have the right to question my behavior. I haven’t placed anyone but myself at risk; I knew what I was doing.”

“What about Xavier de Mourney?”

“This isn’t the time for a debrief. Do you trust me to reset your shoulder or do you want to have your arm amputated first thing when we finally get out of this cave?”

“You walked into that pistol; you didn’t care if he shot you.”

“Correct.”

“That was... ill-advised, Camille.”

“Not if it saved those babies.”

“You’re saying your life didn’t matter but theirs did.”

 

She started to object but changed her mind and said nothing.

The defiance in her eyes softened his. Richard owned up to his part in her newly acquired Don’t-Care-If-I-Live-or-Die attitude. 

 

“So this is how it feels, this-this-this... _unremitting_ anxiety and helplessness, when someone you love doesn’t consider the consequences of their choices on you?” 

“I can’t speak for you, Richard. I only know how I feel.”

“I would prefer not to lose my arm to gangrene. Please reset my shoulder.”

“Do you want a pain killer now or later?”

“Later. I want to know what resetting feels like so I will understand the next time.”

“This will hurt badly.”

“That’s part of repairing an injury properly, isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

The actual resetting had gone smoother than expected. Whatever injury he’d suffered at boarding school left the sinews of the joint slightly loose. Camille left him for a few moments and returned with a chemical cold pack, a clean stretch wrap, first aid tape and a sling from the med kit. 

 

Richard wouldn’t need the sling until he regained consciousness.

 

Flat on his back in the tent, he’d gritted his teeth through the straightening of his arm. Sweat broke out accompanied by low growling when Camille placed her foot in his armpit and began to rotate his arm for the relocation. During the slow, torturous pulling on his arm to get it back into place Richard screamed in pain and passed out.

Camille relaxed after this. Once she’d angled the head end of the bone into the correct position, the bone slid past the swollen tissue and back into the joint proper. Able to manipulate his arm more aggressively with Richard out cold, she soon had it back in place. Camille felt around to make sure the joint was sound then wrapped it lightly in a stretch bandage. The stretch wrap now went only around his shoulder and over the cold pack to keep it in place. Because of his state of unconsciousness, she loosely taped the arm at the wrist to his torso to keep it comfortably stationary until he could competently wear a sling.

 

Setting his chrono alarm for an hour, she let herself rest.


	20. -

**_Rouse_ **

 

Because Le Bon Dieu sent Richard Poole to test Camille’s patience and commitment, the alarm set off her internal panic alarm when she realized she was alone in the tent. 

The famous Bordey temper hit maximum heat after scanning the cave.

Richard knelt next to the fire - which he’d tended again; the blaze roared and sent continuous waves of heat up the cave wall and across the ceiling to the tent. He’d taken out two MREs but hadn’t activated the cooking chemicals. More plantain and bananas - cooked and raw, respectively - sat in makeshift serving bowls set along side a mug prepped for coffee.

Rechecking the chrono provided an answer to her mental questions: Richard reset the alarm to let her sleep. He’d regained consciousness within that first hour and chosen not to disturb her. She’d slept for almost three hours. The fruit told her he’d been back into the storm, a fact she confirmed by checking his state of undress - he was naked. She did consider that getting briefs on with his arm taped probably drove his decision to remain in the buff.

Camille checked her temper as she exited the tent. Moving around purposefully meant he’d gotten some relief from the resetting procedure. Moreover, she’d get a chance to inspect the color of that arm in decent lighting without having to ask for his cooperation.

 

“How are you feeling?” came to him in a carefully neutral tone.

“I’m almost pain free - although I do have a bit of swelling. In fear you’d harangue me for taking any pills without your permission, I waited for you to give your blessing.”

“How’s your cold pack?” she asked as she retrieved the analgesic pills from the med kit.

“Lukewarm.”

 

Adding the sling and two cold packs to the bundle, she padded back over and sat next to him.

 

“Sit down so I can change this wrap.”

“Not on the ground!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m NOT putting my naked arse on the floor of this cave!”

“You’ve been over here managing the fire and cooking all this time - **naked**!”

“Ah! But that’s not SITTING, is it?”

“UGH! You are SO _EEENGLISH_ sometimes!”

 

This last came at him as she rose and retrieved the last necessary first aid resource - his briefs - from the clothes line.

 

“Stand up, Richard!”

“Camille, I’m cooking the plantains. If you don’t want them tough or charred then let me finish. It’s a delicate job as I have no cooking oil and the starch in the fruit wants to caramelize all over the bottom of my pan.”

“That is the longest way to say ‘Give me a minute’ I’ve ever heard. Same old Richard.”

 

Instead of a sarcastic riposte, an introspective observation came back to her.

 

“No, I’m not the ‘same old Richard’. Don’t know that I want to be that person again.”

 

Camille looked at him without frustration or anger and noted the subtle changes. Whatever he’d experienced on the mission had seasoned him, made him more confident and more communicative than he’d been when he left Saint-Marie.

 

“Are you almost done?”

“Yes, yes. I think these will do. I steamed them in a bit of water with some of the powdered milk. Added a bit of sugar for your French taste buds. Kind of plantain pudding. Has a nice flavor.”

“I appreciate your effort, Richard. But you’re injured and need to rest.”

“I will not leave all this on you again.”

 

Brilliant word choice communicated in no uncertain terms that Richard would backstop Camille in this cave and in this life.

 

“You’re not; and you’re not a burden either. Now set those down and let’s get you into these briefs so you can ‘sit’ and I can treat your shoulder.”

 

With his gourmet camp dessert set to the side to arrest further cooking, Camille had him stand up as she knelt in front of him with his briefs. Head down in concentration, she instructed him to hold her shoulder with his good hand and raise his foot so she could slip the briefs under it.

 

“Camille - I’m-I’m-I’m sorry!”

“For what!? Needing help?” she barked back, perplexed until she felt a gentle tapping near the top of head. 

 

One of his hands lay secured against his torso with tape; the other sat on her shoulder keeping him upright.

 

“I-I-I don’t have any control over it. God, I’m such a git! I’m not trying to-to-to -”

 

Camille chuckled, tapping his other ankle to signal him to lift his foot.

 

“I’m happy to know you’ve returned from the dead fully functional. Although I do wonder if we’ll be able to get all of you into these briefs; they look at bit ‘small’ to me.” she teased, glad to have a distraction from the thoughts her proximity to him - and his response to her - brought to her mind. 

  _Thank goodness he can’t tell what he’s doing to_ ** _me_** _right now!_ she admitted to herself.

 

“They might have shrunk, what with all the damp and drying cycles.” he added helpfully, trying to distract himself and return to normal.

“Or you may use a larger size.” she laughed.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” he sent with less rancor than she expected.

“I most certainly am.”

 

As predicted by Camille, “getting” him back into the briefs challenged her packing skills. Her need to touch him - even lightly - made the situation comically worse. At one point three hands manipulated him in a hilarious contest to shove him into the briefs without hurt.

Mortified beyond his limit, Richard finally took the situation “in hand” - pushing Camille’s hands away - and stuffed himself painfully into his briefs. No part of him escaped the humiliated flush of red coloring.

In deference to their relationship situation, Camille held off teasing him while they ate. She’d come dangerously close to helping him with his “problem” despite her belief that they couldn’t sleep their way past the remaining challenges. 

But he’d been so cute standing there like a school boy - ashamed and aroused and unable to do anything about it. Considering Richard’s age, it was a testament to his overall fitness that such a response was still possible. Getting through their reconciliation without a “reconciliation” could prove tougher than she’d expected.

That assumed, of course, that she actually forgave him.

Her observations of his naked body since the storm stranded them in the cave brought back some anomalies she observed and stored for later consideration. She’d noted the seasoned look of Richard even in the Infirmary at the convention. Now, with closer scrutiny, she wasn’t sure what she saw was seasoning.

She wondered...

 

“Richard, you’re pretty well known in forensic circles and you investigated James Lavender’s murder here on Saint-Marie. What did SOCA do to disguise your appearance?”

“Plastic surgery.” he responded as he assisted the clean up after their meal.

 

Camille washed and Richard distributed the dishes on the rocks to dry since this could be accomplished one-handed. Before eating, Camille had removed the surgical tape - with much screaming as she yanked tape and chest hair together - and forced him into a sling after reapplying the stretch wrap to his shoulder over two chemical  ice packs from the med kit.

 

“So what did they do?”

“Subtle changes. Cheek implants, -”

“So I DID see small scars near your nose!” she shouted, congratulating herself on her detecting skills.

“Yes. Had a little chin work done. Some skin nipped and tucked here and there. Bit of tightening. Just enough to make someone look then look away. As you know, my greatest asset is my invisibility. No one sees me.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“Sorry. Meant to be a joke, you know - like a super power.

“After my face healed they fitted me with blue contacts and a new wardrobe.”

“What? More suits in different shades of black?”

“Because of my profile, I wasn’t allowed to wear suits. I wore khaki pants and shorts, jeans and polos. Occasionally added an oxford shirt but no ties. Sometimes no shirt at all.”

“Are you SERIOUS!?”

“Well, yeah...”

“And I MISSED THIS!?”

“I couldn’t exactly post pictures of myself on the Internet with captions like ‘Hey, Camille! Check me out!’ You are aware of what deep cover means.”

“So where are the clothes?”

“Had to leave them most of them behind.”

“Why?”

 

“My cover got compromised and I had to escape back to SOCA.”


	21. -

Day 2 of the rain storm found Dwayne damning and Fidel fuming about the storm damage. 

 

Storm damage turned the two officers into lumberjacks. Repeated trips up every road the older officer knew confirmed the truth: there’d be no way up into those hills until significant amounts of debris were removed.

After half a day wasted trying to find a way around the blockage and debris, both men changed out of their uniforms and reported to a work crew with chainsaws and axes. Analyzing the roads most likely to lead to the Chief and Camille, they assigned themselves to crews working the road they needed.

By sundown of Storm Day 2, Dwayne’s body had ceased to communicate with his brain and Fidel fell deeply asleep at his desk without a shower or a clothing change. The constable set the alarms on the computers for just before sunrise: with any luck they’d cleared the worst of the problems and would be able to find their missing colleagues using the motorbike.


	22. -

**_Revelation - VIII_ **

 

“I spent my time on a ship in the Mediterranean. Got interviewed in Portugal by someone in the Lavender gang and sweated out getting hired in a B&B in Lisbon. I woke up in my room four days later to an envelope shoved under the door. The envelope contained a one-way ticket to Cyprus, a name and some cash.

“So I packed, took a taxi to the Lisbon airport and flew to Cyprus.

“The airport in Cyprus was a madhouse - must have been a two-for-one sale for airline seats - but my local contact managed to find me and take me to this private dock.

“Security on the boat vetted me pretty thoroughly then a young boy showed me my cabin. I was told to unpack and be in the mess in an hour.

“You know, there were a number of lads working on the ship - running errands, serving tables, doing basic cleaning. Might have been older than they looked but I remember thinking the oldest couldn’t be more than 9 or 10.”

 

Camille, with a background in human trafficking interdiction, clarified Richard’s observations with a probable cause.

 

“It’s a difficult world for babies, Richard. They were probably indentured to the gang by poor parents. Go on. You’re on the ship - what happened next?” 

“My manager sought me out while I was eating. She gave me all my work information - you know, where I would work, what shift, who to contact if there was a problem. I asked if I was the only new employee and she said no; we were waiting for a few more recruits before we set sail.”

 

Camille sighed and gave Richard an exasperated glared.

 

“Why are all your ‘managers’ female, Richard?" 

“Interesting question. Would you like me to go back and investigate that?” 

“Don’t be a smart ass, Inspector.” 

"That's Detective  _Chief_ Inspector." 

"Whatever!"

 

“ANYway... Initially I worked on cross-referencing the identify information to make sure its theft hadn’t made its way through the official agencies or the credit card issuers. I got very good at spotting identities that wouldn’t be usable so they promoted me to working directly with the thieves to keep the doggiest materials out of the system.

“After a few weeks handling the entire front end of the process, they promoted me again to handle preparation for reassignment. That gave me the opportunity to see who got what identity and who had already been through the process.”

"So how did you pass all this information on?”

“Sheila.”

 

The name had a similar impact to its earlier pronouncement although Camille held her tongue this time around.

 

“I worked three straight weeks without a day off while the ship sailed from Cyprus to Monaco. They moored off the coast of Monaco and let some of us get off on jetties for two days. I contacted Sheila using a pay phone in La Condamine near the port and chatted her up. SOCA kept a transport at her disposal but in the end she decided to use commercial and met me there."

“So how did pass that much information to her without getting caught? Whispering pillow talk into her ear while you nuzzled her impressive breasts in her hotel room?”

 

The corners of Richard’s mouth quirked at Camille’s barely concealed jealousy over Sheila. Somewhere underneath that searing anger and hurt Richard sensed a small portion of the love he’d damaged with his death.

 

“I wrote her love poetry. GIVE ME A MINUTE TO EXPLAIN, CAMILLE!!!”

 

Months away dulled Richard’s memory of how truly dangerous Camille Bordey could be. He backed up in time to avoid being hit by the woman who’d patched him up but forgot his injuries when she heard the name “Sheila”.

 

“I GAVE her the poetry in notebooks. Sheila and I spent our time together in public view to ensure my employers knew where I was and what I was doing at all times. I used a cypher we’d worked out while I was in Brazil. Uses letter and word substitution with an encryption/decryption key. I had no doubt, as a new employee, that I was under surveillance. I’m convinced they searched the rooms almost every day, although I didn’t have proof of it until I’d been on the job about three months.

“Sheila met me at our next two stopovers - St. Mandrier on the French Riviera and La Linea on the Costa del Sol. 

 

Despite Camille’s intent to remain pissed off at Sheila Holstorm’s continued presence in Richard’s life away from her, the recap he gave intrigued and enthralled her.

 

“By that time I was deeply embedded in the entire identity reallocation process. My boss asked me if I liked the work and offered me more money and a chance to work in the Caribbean when the ship left the Mediterranean in 8 weeks.

“Then the bottom fell out.”


	23. -

“You need to eat. I’ll get the MREs.” Camille called out as she uncrossed her long legs and stretched before rising.

“I’ll try the bourginon this time.”

 

The request stopped Camille dead in her tracks.

 

“Excuse me? You cook without being asked. You apologize without prompting. You’re very virile and not bad to look at. You eat French cuisine. Who are you and what have you done with Richard Poole?”

 

“The cook on the ship -”

“You mean chef, n’est-pas?”

“Called himself “Cook” so I followed his lead. Came from Corsica. Wonderful food and none of it with eyes. Beef, lamb, chicken and the best fish and chips ever - better than the ones in Clacton. I rather enjoyed the beef dishes, you know?”

“Two boeuf bourginon coming up!”

 

Richard delayed assisting her, opting instead to enjoy her movement in that lingerie. Amazing how pain relief will free up brain cells for ogling. She’d lost weight but gained muscle in all the best places thanks to her rigorous grief-driven exercise routines. 

No woman he’d ever known arrested his attention - or the attention of other men - like Camille Bordey . He’d seen the local efforts to woo her, the ones who hadn’t gotten the word that Richard Poole had returned to the living on Saint-Marie.

Seated near the fire in their underwear, Richard prodded Camille about her love life since his death.

 

“You mentioned yesterday that your mother had lined up a number of blind dates. Any real prospects?”

 

Shoveling food into her mouth hid the smile Camille desperately wanted to go away. Richard always wrestled with his jealousy, the curse of men dating beautiful women. Camille decided to have a little fun and mess with his head.

 

“Some were nice. I met a doctor - a forensic pathologist from the U.S.. I enjoyed his company. He had the most beautiful hazel green eyes. I learned some of those shortcuts you’re always using and why they work. Maybe I'll take a degree in forensic chemistry in the U.S. - the Sûreté will pay for it.”

“Is-is-is he still on the island?”

“He’s back in Chicago. Would you like to meet him? I can introduce you by skype.” 

“Might be a good professional contact.” he replied, trying and failing to remain nonchalant. 

“What about Humphrey? He’s in love with you, you know.”

 

The teasing ended when Humphrey entered the conversation.

 

“Yes I do. He sent his wife - ex-wife - packing. Bitch that she was, she deserved it.”

 

Camille cared for Humphrey. He’d been kind and considerate when it mattered and provided a welcomed distraction from her sadness and loneliness. While not in Richard’s league intellectually, his intelligence seemed more accessible to her than Richard’s. The words “pompous” and “arrogant” wouldn’t apply as descriptions of Humphrey Goodman.

Where Camille tugged nuggets of personal revelations from Richard, Humphrey shared with her in a way more similar to her other interpersonal interactions. His divorce provided thoughtful topics for discussion - discussions about failure, true love, growing together, desires and goals and family. Humphrey had been pleasantly surprised to find that the super-competent and beautiful DS still expected to have children when she found the right guy; he and his ex-wife had split on issues such as progeny.

If she’d met Humphrey first, Camille wasn’t sure if she’d have made the effort with Richard. But Le Bon Dieu had other plans for them.

 

“Humphrey and I spent a lot of time together, like you and I used to before you were _murdered_.”

“Is it serious between you and Goodman? Because if it is -”

“What will you do? Be _Eeenglish_ and chivalrous and step out of our way? Slap each other with your handkerchiefs and fight to the death over me? Draw straws then -”

“- because if it is,” he interrupted her, “he’s needs to be told that you and I are together. I’m not going anywhere without you, Camille.”

“Isn’t that my decision?” 

“No; it’s not. **I’m** not going anywhere without you. And as I’m in need of a kip, let’s go to the tent. No hanky-panky, I promise.”

“I’m not sleepy, Richard.”

“I won’t sleep soundly if you’re not there. And without rest I may relapse and re-injure my shoulder.”

“That’s blackmail!” she spluttered, shocked beyond measure at his cheek and brashness.

 

“SOCA taught me; I’ve always been a top student.”


	24. -

**_Revelation - VIV_ **

 

“I came back on board after meeting with Sheila and these new stevedores were emptying the ship of computers, printers, communications equipment - just stripping it out of the work rooms. I tried to snoop but these guys, whoever they were, were businesslike and dangerous. The next day I reported to work in a different room with a lot less equipment. Every identity I assigned had to go through my boss before I could commit it to the computer, which slowed my production down considerably. When I returned to my room, it had been searched with no real attempt to hide that fact. And it was searched every day for the next week. The searches started when this new head man took over - JC, JD... Something like that. 

“My boss and I had become more than colleagues; my production rate got her more money and kudos from the gang. So when all this moving and searching happened I acted surprised and asked casually what was going on. She told me something had gone wrong with the identities and that the gang was looking for blood - they thought they had a mole on board. I pressed it and asked why empty the ship and she said she wasn’t sure, but she’d heard they’d be moving a different cargo out of the Caribbean until they plugged the identity reassignment leak.

“The day I came back from my shift and found my love poetry notebooks moved I determined my time on board had come to an end. I jumped ship.”

 

Camille quietly considered his data before responding with a question.

 

“How big was this ship?”

“I know it was merchant class. Probably had room for 75 to 100 containers on deck.”

“My guess would be they were converting to carry a different cargo - humans.”

“As in trafficking?”

“Yes.” she explained, “If they thought their identity reassignment operation on the ship was compromised, they might have moved the identity work to another ship or even to one of the Mediterranean islands then converted the ship to another money making purpose.  North Africa is accessible from the Mediterranean Sea; trafficking is big business there. 

“Were the young boys on the ship African?”

“I’d say so. Mixed with something else.”

“Then you can probably add trafficking to the list of businesses run off that ship. It makes sense another way as well: it’s easier to smuggle documented persons. The ship could serve both businesses - pickup and transport of humans as well as identity assignment while they’re on board and en route. 

“You’ve gotten yourself into a nasty business, chér. This is bigger than money laundering.”

“I’ll admit my self-preservation instinct got the better of me. For the price of some rum and some help with an identity switch - guy needed to outrun several child support cases in Germany - the jetty driver dropped me off ashore one night.

“I made my way back to Gibraltar by way of Sardinia, Corsica and the Balearic Islands after a month of misdirection and fear. Once I got to Gibraltar, SOCA routed  me through Bern and Amsterdam then into London.

“Camille, I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I slept one night after I left Brazil.”

 

His acknowledgment of her skill and experience soothed more of her anger in ways even Richard could see.

 

“It takes time,” she replied, “to develop comfort in your new identity. With deep cover you either become the person you’re supposed to be or you make a mistake and someone kills you. You got it backwards and got yourself killed first.”

“Very funny, Camille.”

“I thought you would appreciate it. Why Gibraltar?”

“Because it’s a British protectorate and there’s a satellite station there, old NASA facility that’s still operating for the European Space Agency. Contacting SOCA through their equipment wouldn’t be traceable the way current phone and digital communications are. I kept my head down until my handler from Saint-Marie came to get me.”

“Not Sheila?”

“Definitely NOT Sheila. My permanent SOCA handler is male.”

“Explains the briefs. So what happened next? You still look like yourself so they must have reversed your facial surgery.”

“They did - in Switzerland, of all places. I re-entered the U.K. as Richard Poole who’d just flown in from Saint-Marie.”

“That’s quite a story, DCI Poole.”

“It’s all true.”

“But it doesn’t explain why SOCA murdered you. There are a lot of ways to take someone off the grid and bring them back as someone else. I’ve done it myself too many times. I’m upset, Richard; I’m upset that you didn’t come up with a better plan, one that wouldn’t affect my life so much. You didn’t take care of me.”

“I can see that now.”

 

“I won’t be an afterthought in your life. If this is the best you can do, then maybe we don’t belong together.”

 

 

 

 


	25. Denoument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 24Apr14: For those of you who read my chapters before I've had my root beer, there was indeed a different chapter preceding this one. I was messing around with some ideas and accidentally published it. It has been deleted and all is right with the world.

Dawn broke to the faint sounds of voices carried on the breeze. Camille rose immediately to this change in their environment; a faint shower fell almost silently. Untangling herself from Richard, she prudently pulled her t-shirt and shorts from the clothes line to put on while she headed for the cave entrance; it wouldn’t do for them to be rescued with her in her lingerie. 

Foggy from sleep, she couldn’t remember if Richard slept in his underwear or not, not that it mattered: nothing happened between them last night. As his briefs weren’t on the line drying, she’d let him figure out where they were.

 

Camille climbed into the Rover and over to the passenger side; she opened the passenger door without exiting. Standing on the running board, she held onto the door and let her eyes adjust to the creeping daylight. Sleeping together with multiple coverings, both agreed to let the fire burn down to reduce the heat in the cave, leaving just a glow and a natural dark that made slumber easy. 

Unsure she’d heard anything but the remnants of a dream, Camille scanned the horizon once more.

Dwayne and Fidel waved madly at her from some vehicle whose markings were fuzzy at this distance.

 

“CAMILLE!”

“YES, IT’S ME. I HAVE THE CHIEF WITH ME. HE’S INJURED BUT DOING OKAY!”

 

At these distances, only yelling carried their voices back and forth.

 

“THERE’S A TREE DOWN OR WE’D COME GET YOU! WE’RE BRINGING A CREW UP IN A FEW HOURS! CAN YOU GET THE ROVER DOWN HERE?”

 

Camille looked at the terrain carefully and decided the best path would retrace their route to the cave.

 

“I CAN BUT I HAVE TO GO UPHILL. THE STREAM UNDER JOBSON’S BRIDGE OVERFLOWED. I CAN’T GET THE ROVER DOWN UNTIL IT”S NORMAL.”

“WE’LL CHECK IT AFTER THEY REMOVE THE TREE. YOU HAVE ENOUGH FOOD?”

“MORE THAN ENOUGH.”

“THEN STAY PUT. HELP’S COMING!”

 

With that sign-off, Camille returned to the cave to prepare for leaving. She planned to get as much stowed as possible before Richard woke up to “help”.


	26. -

Awakened by the bright early light hitting his eyelids, Richard concluded without opening his eyes that the storm moved onward towards other idyllic Caribbean paradises.

The silence in the tent told him that Camille had risen before him. Stretching, he tested his shoulder; stiffness remained as it did after each sleep or nap period but he had full, if slow, rotational movement and the blue tinge to his arm and skin had not returned.

Escaping the covers and the tent came more easily after days and nights of light but nutritious rations and heavy exercise that included getting trapped under pounds (NOT kilograms) of mud. He’d easily lost a couple of pounds a day while they sheltered in place. If his SOCA assignment had an upside it was the muscles he’d developed; he’d satisfied Camille immensely at his peak fitness before the mission.

Ambient light inside the cave confirmed that Camille had left at some point. She’d tamped the fire in preparation for returning to civilization but left a small area of blazing coals; on this sat the cook pot simmering with hot water. On another rock sat an empty mug with tea and a small packet of UHT milk.

Leaving the tea until later - a sure sign that Richard remained hopelessly adrift while he and Camille remained at odds with each other - he tread almost silently out of the cave entrance, panning side to side with his eyes to locate his missing partner.

 

“I’m over here, Richard.”

 

Camille hid a grin: Richard made a thoroughly funny and thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to hide the fact that he’d been looking for her.

 

“Sit down.”

 

After meandering around her for a moment, Richard sat down on the rock beside her in his briefs. Twinkling sunlight came through as the rain moved off over the mountains at the other end of the island; the rain had ended where they sat.

 

“It’s beautiful, you know; the island. Look at that rainbow, the green hillside, the ocean. I’d quite forgotten how beautiful it can be. Here. On Saint-Marie.”

“Camille... I made a mistake. I never meant for you to suffer. I’ll spend my lifetime making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

 

Her faraway gaze distracted him; she stood suddenly and headed into the cave, catching him unawares. When he finally entered the cave after her, she’d begun to dismantle their camp - leaving his tea for him.

Without a word he joined her in breaking camp.

 

Richard fervently hoped he’d said enough to start a reconciliation.


	27. -

Back to work days after the storm, small changes marked before-the-storm and after-the-storm life in the station. Levity returned to the station atmosphere thanks to the reconciliation of Dwayne and Fidel. Hacky-sack balls flew across the station again, occasionally veering off course to hit Camille - who laughed, or the Chief - who scowled unconvincingly.

Camille modified her work hours to spend more time with the team. Richard hoped she’d considered him in her decision as it sometimes necessitated pre-dawn telecons between Camille and her European bosses. On occasion, these telecons included Richard. For these crack o’ dawn sorties, Camille granted him the courtesy of picking him up from the beach shack in the Rover, often with tea and cinnamon rolls waiting in the truck. Fidel, however, remained his routine car pool partner most days.

The celebration ritual for solving a murder moved closer to its old behaviors. Camille joined them - at least for a while - at La Kaz before making her apologies and retiring to her accommodations above the restaurant. Even Catherine noted Camille’s repeated escapes - by the second round of beers, Camille’s chair always sat vacant. On the up side, Richard now covered the entire bar tab for such celebrations, his salary from SOCA providing a significant boost to his earnings.

 

Things were marginally better but not back to normal.

 

* * *

 

Since the storm, Richard spent his spare time working out when he wasn’t hanging out at La Kaz satisfying himself with glimpses of Camille. Occasionally she’d sit at the bar drinking with men friends, provoking Richard’s jealousy to teeth-grinding intensity. He’d taken to bringing law enforcement firearms catalogs to the restaurant to read as a salve. Catherine made Camille promise to eventually tell Richard that her “dates” were professional contacts from the Sûreté checking in with Camille - the local agent for the organization.

Other times he sat silently for hours, sipping his tea by himself in a corner, hoping for a sighting of his love. On these days Catherine made a point to spend time with him to keep his spirits up and to help dispel his despair that Camille was merely toying with him before she unceremoniously dumped him as payback for what he’d done. 

Investing in Richard paid off for Catherine.  

She’d finally, after many small and intimate revelations, understood his compulsion to remove himself as her boss before going public with their relationship. Richard feared a repeat of the frustration that drove his first DS, Lily Thomson, to take bribes and kill Richard’s predecessor. 

In a fit of righteous indignation that Catherine secretly applauded, Richard expressed his opinion that the only thing keeping Camille from getting her DI promotion was her bi-racial _island_ heritage and the Met's inability to recognize brains not centered in and around London. 

Once they’d become lovers, Richard quickly realized her career progress would be in jeopardy: their superiors would hold Camille back for breaking the fraternization rules while backslapping him for having “had his way” with a beautiful woman like Camille Bordey. Overcoming the double standard required that Richard provide her another boss who would judge her on her work not her choice of consort. 

At the expense of their relationship, Richard’s position now fell completely under the National Crime Agency - the new name for SOCA. Camille split her time between the RSMPF and Interpol via the National Police Force - her Sûreté. 

Unfortunately, he admitted to Catherine, he’d fixed their professional problem by destroying the relationship he’d hoped to make permanent. From his pocket, Richard removed a small item and handed it to Catherine. Inside the Cartier box Catherine found an exquisite one-of-a-kind engagement and wedding ring set, including the groom’s ring. Her grin expressed not just her satisfaction with his choice but her surprise that he would pick a French jeweler over an English one. 

Catherine committed to memory the shape and size of the elegant chocolate diamond in the engagement ring; she’d make a few discrete inquiries to get a rough estimate of how much the rings might be worth. Richard, however, answered her unspoken questions without the need for subterfuge on Catherine’s part. 

In a moment of dark humor, Richard wondered if he could get his £40,000 back since Camille no longer considered him a marital candidate. He confessed to spending a significant portion of his SOCA bonus - almost half of the recovery fee from the relieved credit card issuers - on the ring; the balance he’d invested until they could agree on a house on Saint-Marie - one with an air-con and a fenced garden.

Catherine (re)committed then and there to helping Richard get out of the dog house with Camille and told him so. His lopsided smile of genuine appreciation brought tears to her eyes. Catherine’s ex-husband, Marlon, hadn’t invested the time or effort to keep them together as a family; Catherine would make sure Camille’s pride and anger didn’t let a good man get away.

 

For the first time, Catherine genuinely understood what Camille saw under the rough exterior of this awkward forensic savant.

 

 

 


	28. -

Richard clearly understood he had no leeway for error with Camille; that knowledge ensured he would indeed make an error.

Richard forgot his anniversary.

Camille remembered and reminded Richard by calling in sick that day without explanation. She hadn’t missed a day to sickness in nearly three years. 

Not even when she worked on solving his murder.

Richard’s expression, as he stared at the phone without a clue or a plan, communicated to Dwayne how very far his lovesick boss still had to go in the interpersonal relationship arena.

 

“She’s not sick - at least not physically.”

“What’s the matter!? Is-Is-Is she in some kind of trouble!?”

 

Dwayne sighed in frustration and resignation. How the Chief could simultaneously be so smart and so stupid perplexed _and_ overworked Dwayne almost daily since _before_ the Chief’s death. 

Even now Catherine had Dwayne back on duty as “Richard’s Romantic Re-educator” to ensure Richard didn’t foul up his reconciliation with Camille. Catherine still considered Richard the best option for grand-babies sooner than later. Dwayne would’ve politely begged off if he didn’t still owe hundreds of francs on his bar bill at La Kaz.

Looking heavenward for assistance, Dwayne lectured his feckless student.

 

“Go and find her. She’s at the cemetery; the one where you’re buried. It was a year ago today, you know. You died. Stay with her and **_talk_** to her, Chief.”

 

* * *

 

Today,  Le Bon Dieu took pity again on Richard Poole and gave him an overcast, breezy day to climb the hill to the cemetery. After walking for 20 minutes, he tread nervously towards her as she spread new flowers in a well thought-out design and removed the wilted ones.  

 

“My heart stopped when I walked past that lounge chair and saw your body - it didn’t start again until the conference. For weeks everything hurt - waking, eating - when I could eat, dressing, driving... Everything hurt because I’d done every one of those things with you. Poor Humphrey, he must’ve thought I hated him because I never came to pick him up without red eyes. He’s was very patient and kind.

“I came here a lot. It let me get close to you. I would talk about my day or the team. I would talk out our cases with you, use your ‘process’ for solving crimes. I tried to make this place attractive for you. A lot of people came by to show their respect months after you were ‘murdered’ - they really respected you.

“Maman... lived it all with me again. She started up again with the blind dates, trying anything to get me to move on. In my head I compared them all to you. I would tell you about them when I came here to care for you. Your mother and I emailed each other almost every day because I needed you, some living part of you, in my life. I still email her quite a bit.

“After all that break-up sex, I missed a few cycles.”

 

Green eyes searched hers, the potential meaning crystal clear. The joke after she’d fainted at the conference took on a darker, sadder meaning.

 

“I got the test results but I never opened them; my cycle came back a few months after your... So I don’t know if... if... The envelope is back at mine if you want to know. Don’t tell me; I don’t want to lose anyone else in my life. When I couldn’t listen to any more polite concern, couldn’t avoid places where we’d been together, when Saint-Marie stopped being home, I reactivated my credentials for deep cover work... Anything to escape my memory of you here.”

“You’ve always been an excellent agent, Camille,” he started in a near whisper, “but you seem... less than careful in the cases I’ve seen you handle. You don’t seem to care about your own safety. I’m scared for you, Camille - for us.” 

“What did you expect? Half my heart was gone. Maybe more than half...” 

“I don’t know what I’d do if something... happened to you. I’m not as strong as you, Camille.” 

“Did you consider that when you ignored what you knew about my first dead fiancé, Robert? How could you do that to me knowing I had been through it **all** before?”

 

His only answer was silence. Eyes looking anywhere but hers, Richard shivered as he scanned his own grave, a grave carefully tended by the woman he should have married before he left and who may have miscarried their baby while she struggled to move on after his murder. 

A murder she’d had to solve.

He’d damaged her in so many cruel and inconsiderate ways. How appropriate, he decided, that their relationship should die in a cemetery at a gravesite with his name chiseled into the grave marker. 

His body might not be buried here but - as sure as sun and heat baked Saint-Marie - his relationship with Camille was being lowered inch by inch into the fallow ground.

 

“I hope you never have to feel this... this... loss. I hope you never have to live without someone you love.” she admonished softly as she rose to leave.

 

With her words trickling down into his heart from his head, he once again missed a Camille departure. Richard sat alone on the bench she’d had placed next to his grave as her tribute to a man who wasn’t actually dead.

Dwayne’s voice shouted inside Richard’s head, repeating the instructions Richard almost fouled up. Dwayne had ordered him to stay with her and he’d let her walk away. Bounding off the bench he jogged down the slope towards the cemetery gate; Camille stood there waiting for him to catch up.

 

“Come on,” she told him in French. She got no smart-ass retort. “Being with someone, being a couple, means communicating, Richard. I’ve worked years of deep cover and I would _never_ leave for an assignment without telling you - I don’t care if it’s classified! You’re a professional; I would expect you to protect the information. You didn’t trust me and couples _have_ to trust each other.

"Suppose someone you know told you I was cheating on you. Would you trust me? Or would you act like most men involved with a desirable woman and sneak around checking on me? Because that’s what you did: you let SOCA convince you that I couldn’t be trusted. None of my training or experience mattered - SOCA had you believing that if you shared **_any_** part of what was planned I would compromise the mission. And you believed them even though you know me, you’ve _worked_ with me. Our relationship wasn’t enough for you to believe in me as a professional or as your lover. That hurt as much as your death.

“You’re a brilliant man, Richard. But you're not the only one in this relationship with a brain. I will not be treated like your ‘little woman’ - I will not be sheltered, shielded or shunted to the side like something fragile. I thought you learned that lesson when Aimee was murdered. I love you, but I need time. What you did was selfish and insensitive."

 

Richard had a head for maths: In relationship calculus “Time” = “Ending it all in slow, painful segments”.

 

“You need to convince me you’re worth the risk of being hurt or disregarded again. And you need to convince me that you trust me. That will take work, Richard. Do _you_ understand?”

 

Truthfully he only understood some of it but he wouldn’t dare say that. Following rules had always served him; with SOCA and Camille in his life together, rules were no longer black and white. His relationship to both constantly forced him to make choices he’d cocked up for a lifetime. 

He inspected his shoes instead of answering.

 

“Do you want to work this out, Richard - or is this the end of us?”

 

Those deep chocolate eyes confused his thinking, demanding a response while his brain turned to plaster of paris from the look of her after all these months. Camille read him, understood he’d take the most bleak view of their challenges. 

She wouldn’t wait forever, though, for an answer.

 

“Do you still want to be with me, Camille?”

“Answer mine first.”

“I did this so we could be together - here on Saint-Marie - without complications. I didn’t realize... 

“I do love you, Camille, and I'll always want to be with you.”

“You took me for granted and disrespected me professionally and emotionally. You hurt me. 

“Don’t do it again. You’re going to have to regain **my** trust. It won’t be so easy this time, Richard.”

 

“Alright, Camille...”

 

“Time for you to go back to work, Richard.”


	29. -

Camille arrived fashionably late - on purpose; by now Richard would be checking his watch every two minutes and desperately staring at his mobile while struggling to keep from calling her about her lateness. Catherine - following Camille’s instructions - seated him on the patio to deny him the cooling breeze from the fan.

Descending the stairs, Camille presented a vision of loveliness. Angry as she had been at Richard for hurting Camille, Catherine thought Camille might be putting Richard “too much through the ringer” in her relationship retraining class. Nothing that Camille had endured over the past year had shaken the depth of her feeling for Richard Poole; Catherine accepted that Camille had found her mate.

 

“You look beautiful.”

“Merci, Maman.”

“Camille -”

“Maman - the man left me mourning for months. He didn’t consider how his ‘death’ would affect me and he _completely_ disregarded what I told him about Robert.”

“Did you tell him _everything_ \- about you and Robert?”

 

Catherine recognized the look on Camille’s face. She’d seen it frequently during Camille’s teenage years after a curfew violation accompanied by smudged make-up. Not all confessions were created equal.

 

“No...”

“Then how can you expect him to understand? Camille, you picked this man to love. You know how he struggles to understand feelings - especially yours. He can be insensitive, clueless and arrogant. But he loves you and he’s miserable. Be careful, chéri; Richard’s heart is fragile and inexperienced. If he thinks he has no chance with you, he’ll give up.”

“Then I’ll have to take that chance, Maman, because I won’t be taken for granted. In our jobs, the next time he dies might be the last!”

 

Catherine held her stubborn daughter’s glare until Camille softened.

 

“Alright! I’ll shorten his ‘obstacle course’!”

“Wonderful! I think both of you have been suffering from this separation.”

“Maman!”

 

Catherine returned Camille’s shocked expression with a knowing look. From their prior mother-daughter discussions Catherine had no doubt that Richard suited Camille in the bedroom.

 

“I am still hoping for a grandchild. Go!”

 

Catherine gave her daughter’s shoulder an affectionate shove towards the sweltering, stressed-out, sheepish and sex-starved genius who desperately wanted to earn his way back into Camille’s heart and bed.

Serving drinks to a table near the patio, Catherine delayed her return to the bar long enough to listen in on her daughter’s conversation with her intended. So far Richard hadn’t made any major gaffes, only the small ones Camille long ago learned to dismiss. The night was starting in a promising manner.

To help Richard with Camille, Catherine scheduled herself a weekend away on St. Kitts for next week; a fellow restauranteur would operate Laz Kaz during her “vacation”. Absent a mother/mother-in-law in the apartment, Catherine hoped Camille and Richard would resume the more... intimate aspects of their relationship. Catherine suspected Camille was close to breaking; a gentle shove from her absentee mother on St. Kitts would accomplish the rest.

 

At the bar again, Catherine made a note to order in a keg of Guinness and one of Harp along with all the ingredients for 6 English meals and four pitchers of Cherub’s Cup - Richard favorite cooler. 

 

After all, Catherine didn’t want Camille preparing food and refreshments all next weekend.


	30. -

On Saturday, while Camille continued Richard’s torturous training in the boyfriend school on the sweltering porch at La Kaz, Catherine met privately with Selwyn Patterson and discussed her strategy for keeping Richard on the island and getting Camille to tear up those ridiculous transfer papers she’d submitted. With the first smile he’d displayed in a year concerning those two, he heartily agreed to clear their calendars for the next two weeks.

 

On Sunday, Catherine cornered Dwayne and revealed her plans for Richard and Camille. She "suggested" Dwayne prepare Richard and make sure that Richard and Camille ended up in the apartment on Friday evening. Dwayne sarcastically asked if it was his job to keep them there, to which Catherine replied ”Of course!”

 

On Monday, Catherine announced to Camille her intent to get away for a weekend. She also commanded her daughter to compassionately help Richard see the error of his ways and to stop punishing him for being who he was.

 

On Tuesday, Catherine notified Richard of her plan to give them a time and a place for a real reconciliation. Catherine bluntly instructed Richard to do whatever Dwayne told him and to stay with Camille in the apartment no matter what. When a clueless but desperate Richard almost yelled the question “How in bloody HELL am I supposed to do THAT!?” Catherine suggested he reminisce about their pre-murder activities and select one most likely to keep Camille close and docile.

 

On Wednesday, Catherine cooked for the weekend. When she finished, three days of hearty English cuisine sat in the refrigerator. The freezer held delicate sauces that wouldn’t keep and four large zipper bags of Cherub’s Cup refresher (with more than the usual amount of gin). 

 

On Thursday, Catherine made a show of packing incompetence to get Camille’s help. Subtly she discussed the coming weekend, using reverse psychology to prod Camille towards her _real_ desires for her weekend time with Richard. Even at Camille’s present age, it worked wonderfully well _if_ the subject mattered to her: Camille admitted to Catherine that she still held deep love and affection for Richard Poole - she just needed to punish him a little over his stupid SOCA gaffe. In this behavior she took after her mother.

 

On Friday Catherine created such confusion that Camille and Richard had to pick her up in the Rover with the siren blaring to get her to the airport on time. They now had no excuse for not retreating to the apartment over La Kaz for the dinner she’d prepared for them - the same dinner that made her late for the airport. 


	31. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the errors in this chapter. AO3 died while I was adding this chapter and editing it and some new and exciting improvisational changes were introduced. I'm workin' my way through them.

Sunday afternoon Catherine pulled up to La Kaz in the taxi almost three hours earlier than expected. Storm predictions for St. Kitts changed all the departure times. She’d considered staying but knew her substitute at La Kaz would return to his own restaurant on Monday. She exited the taxi and thought quickly through her next moves as she entered the building through the rear door.

Catherine had spent hours trying to reach Camille or Richard by phone with no success. The idea that the (former?... future?) couple’s time together was well-used pleased Catherine but she didn’t relish walking in on an intimate moment in her own apartment. She’d tried to coax Dwayne into delivering her message but he’d told her he’d deliver the money for his bar bill one hour after her return and resign from ‘romance training’ duty if she insisted. Selwyn and Carol were off island at some fund raising event and thus unavailable until later in the evening. 

Satisfied that she’d made her best effort, Catherine caught the flight home and prepared herself to catch her daughter and her son-in-law (as soon as Camille said yes and actually went through with it) in flagrante delicto - in the act.

 

Camille’s yelling wafted down to Catherine halfway up as she climbed the stairs.

 

“I don’t BELIEVE this! How could this happen again!?”

“I don’t know, but it always seems to after a separation.”

“Only with YOU! I’ve used one of these since I was 16, Richard, and you’re the ONLY one who’s ever -”

“Since... 16!?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT! How could you NOT notice it wasn’t in place?”

“Camille, you’re not being fair. I can’t actually tell when it’s there and when it isn’t...”

“No - you don’t CARE if it’s there or if it isn’t! There’s a difference!”

“I thought you were on the pill...”

“I stopped right before all that break-up sex because it made me _sick_. Casper had me back to using the cap. Then you **died** and I was sleeping _alone_ \- STOP GRINNING, RICHARD!”

 

Scratching his head to return blood from his lower extremities back to his brain, Richard’s woozy memory recalled vaguely that Camille switched to the pill because they’d sweated out one too many close calls every time they were  separated for more than 3 days. 

After months of being out of sorts due to the pill’s impact on her system, the side effects escalated - making her violently ill. Dr. Casper Gentili transitioned her back to the cap until he could research other formulations of the pill or the possibility that a contraceptive implant might work better with fewer side effects.

The thought occurred to his sexually intoxicated brain that the sooner she conceived the easier it would be for both of them to avoid contraceptives _and_  undesirable assignments from their respective organizations.

 

“Does it really upset you that much?”

“Of COURSE it does! I have a life and a career, too Richard! Just because we’re making love again doesn’t mean I’ve decided to forgive you! You thought it was okay to have break-up sex with me!

“I wasn't _leaving_ you, Camille. It wasn’t break-up sex. It’s never just sex with you - not for me...”

“And I’m still angry with you! You could get another stupid assignment and leave me again!”

 

The quiet told Catherine and Camille that the last statement had hurt him and he lacked an answer.

 

“Ugh!! This is not a good time for us to be dealing with this, Richard!”

“Too late to put that genie back in the proverbial bottle, I would think.”

 

Silence indicated Richard had surprised Camille with his zinger. Catherine well understood the subject; in this discussion Camille’s mother sided whole-heartedly with Richard.

 

“You’re normally very observant. I can’t believe you didn’t feel the difference. Have you been at that cooler?”

“The Cherub's Cup? I’ve been sipping it all weekend. It’s very good,” he replied evasively.

“No, I’m talking about now. Today. It’s 14:00 and my mother is due back in this apartment in 3 hours. You haven’t started to pack or worry about cleaning up. You’ve been naked the entire day. How much cooler have you had **_today_**?”

“From the ziplock bag?” he asked, playing stupid unsuccessfully.

“Yes. There were two bags left last night. How many bags are left now?”

“Four”

“You’re lying, Richard - my mother only _left_ you  four bags. You drank one on Friday evening and one yesterday.”

“And there are still four _bags_ left in the apartment.” he smugly answered.

“Stop the word games, Richard Poole! How much of the last two bags of that gin cooler did you drink today?”

 

Richard’s ability to keep up with Camille’s 200-km-an-hour verbal darts gave Catherine the answer before he sheepishly replied. Catherine knew the cooler always freed Richard’s rapier wit from its English restraints. 

 

“All of it...”

“In SIX HOURS? Mon Dieu, no WONDER you’ve been as randy as a school boy! Did you even NOTICE my cervical cap had come out?”

“Camille, in the moment I’m not exactly thinking about your contraceptive -”

“You NEVER think about contraception! That’s the problem! Qu'est-ce que je vais faire avec vous!?”

 

Richard’s next question arrested Catherine’s retreat down the stairs. The fear in his voice could not be mistaken.

 

“I know this wasn’t your plan but... if you’re pregnant... will you keep the baby?... ”

“I don’t **know** what I’ll do!” Camille snapped back at him too fast for real thought.

 

That answer froze Catherine’s heart. Catherine knew of their prior close calls - Camille had been comfortable with whatever the result was. She’d been prepared to work it all out with Richard and raise any child they produced - as had Richard. 

From the sounds of it, only Richard wanted the baby they might have made this weekend.

 

“Because it’s mine?... And you don’t love me anymore. Was this weekend break up sex? I’m not sure I would know...”

 

Hurt radiated off of him. 

He’d drawn a different - and incorrect - conclusion to the one she’d intended.  

A pregnancy would _force_ them together - the exact opposite of what she wanted. Significant healing lay ahead of them before she’d trust Richard as a competent life partner, much less a competent father. Weeks after the mountain storm they were still re-learning to be a couple, not the greatest place to start learning how to be parents. But Camille relented; she’d welcome and love any baby they made _and_ she'd continue to love the baby's father.

Once she stopped being irritated with him.

 

“Aagghhh! It’s never simple with you, is it Richard? You wear wool in the tropics. You only eat Eeenglish food. You drink hot tea in 100-degree heat. You avoid sand on a beach. You go out in hurricanes. You **die**! Once again we have to plan and prepare for a situation that shouldn’t have ever HAPPENED - and we can’t do it here. My mother will be home in three hours.”

 

Catherine sent up a prayer thanking Le Bon Dieu for slapping Camille back to her senses. Bordey women welcomed babies - planned and unplanned.

 

“So you’re keeping the baby?” he asked hesitantly with a lopsided grin.

 

Richard’s relief and happiness at Camille’s change of heart came through the door like the heat from a raging fire. If she’d been inside her own apartment, Catherine would have seen Richard’s headlong rush to embrace Camille and Camille’s arm - palm facing him - extended to stop him short of his goal.

 

“ ** _IF_** I’m pregnant then yes, I’m keeping my baby.”

“OUR baby. Would’ve been harder to do without me!”

“You _are_ drunk, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think so - most men can’t recover sexually four times in six hours when they’re drunk. Certainly not at my age. Has to do with the depressive effects of alcohol on the nervous system... But... you... don’t... want to hear this right now?... ”

 

Catherine’s last voyeuristic moment brought a silent laugh.

 

“I don’t think most school boys have your recovery time or stamina chér,” Camille chuckled.

 

Catherine made her way down to the bar. En route she determined she’d wait an hour or so then go up as if she was only a little early. 

 Back upstairs, life in the Bordey-Poole universe took a giant leap forward.

 

“So... What do you want to do now?” he asked. 

 

There was no mistaking his hope that they’d make love again - sans contraceptive.

 

“We clean up the apartment - I think we’ve made love on every piece of furniture so we have some scrubbing to do. You pack your things - you know... you didn’t bring much, just a toiletry kit and underwear. I’m not sure whether to be happy or irritated at your assumption that we’d be making love.”

“Not assuming, just hoping. As you and your mother have a washer and dryer I didn’t see the need to overpack. My jeans and polo are easy enough to launder. Then what?”

 

Camille sighed in recognition of the emotional workload ahead.

 

“ _Then_ we go somewhere and talk.”

“Where?” he inquired as he started clearing the table and washing dishes. Camille chuckled; Richard had her mother’s full length chef’s apron on to do the dishes with his delicious rear end exposed in the back.

“The beach shack, where else would we go?”

“Your place.”

“No! Not there!”

 

Amongst the lessons Richard learned in the cave was that Camille experienced fear intensely. It arrested her ability to perform confidently. She coped by denying fear any purchase in her life but some triggers assaulted her coping mechanism...

 

“Camille... I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. If we have more... challenges to deal with, let’s deal with them at home.”

“Richard, please...”

“Camille, until we decide together on another place, it’s our _home_.”

“I haven’t been there in a year - it’s a mess!”

“Then I’ll clean it up or we’ll clean it together. Let’ go home.”

 

Re-entering her former home would expose the place-memories she’d abandoned there. Richard’s presence might remove the triggers but Camille still experienced significant pain and anger over Richard’s choices - and Robert’s.

 

“Camille - I know you’ve been putting me through some kind of 'relationships for gits' training because I was a right arse and didn’t respect or appreciate you. But I won’t get better at all this partner behavior if you don’t let me try. I want to spend time alone with you in our home working things out. We've made progress this weekend and I don't want to lose it.

“Please come home with me.”


	32. -

_**[Dis]Closure** _

 

Stopping on the stoop, Catherine moved with more than the usual deliberateness to ensure that the insertion and turning of the key in the lock did not disturb any goings on. As the bolt stopped in the “open” position, she prayed silently that the living area was empty - otherwise, she added, please let the mutual embarrassment be minimal.

Peeking through the opening between the door and the jamb, she exhaled and opened the door fully. With knees slightly bent against the weight (and to assuage her aging back) Catherine lifted the food warmer over the threshold and sat it down on the floor on the kitchen side of the living area. 

Catherine had just closed the front door when noises behind her got her attention. Experience guided her through the routine of raising her arms above her shoulders, hands opened, and waiting for instructions.

 

“Maman, I knew it was you. No one else has a key.” Camille informed her mother. Catherine lowered her arms and turned to see her daughter repeating the quiet door-closing behavior on the bedroom door. The identification protocol came home with Camille after Robert’s assassination. Camille usually approached the doors in her house with a loaded pistol.

 

A look at her daughter, nude underneath a provocative silk robe that she was tying the sash on, told Catherine that Richard slept on the other side of the closed bedroom door. He'd overcome Camille’s extreme aversion to returning here. Once they'd announced their plans to her, Catherine spent the intervening hours after they'd left the apartment preparing meals for them.

Camille looked relaxed and at peace for the first time since Richard’s “event”. Catherine’s sojourn to St. Kitt’s had been the right encouragement for her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law. As no silver lining came without a dark cloud, Catherine now had to plot how to “help” Richard plan a wedding without Camille’s objections. 

Catherine’s wedding planning for her daughter started three minutes after she heard the words “It’s a GIRL!”.

 

“Chéri, I have not forgotten.”

 

The look Catherine gave Camille communicated more than just the acknowledgment of Camille's security protocol.

 

“You brought food?”

“You haven’t lived here in a year. I emptied your refrigerator myself. I didn’t want you to have to cook while you and Richard were having your reunion.”

“I was going to shop tomorrow after work. I think we’ll probably come back here.”

“I’ve saved you that effort for a few days. Oh! Selwyn called looking for you - you’re both on medical leave for the next two weeks. Apparently his personnel office made a mistake handling your mandatory time off after the storm.”

 

Catherine’s slight modification of the actual facts withstood the stare Camille aimed at her. Unable to sustain her suspicion in her present state of calm and satisfaction, Camille smiled and moved to meet he mother in the small kitchen.

 

“You need a bigger kitchen, chéri; you’ll be cooking more now that you and Richard are working things out.”

“Maman - don’t push. I haven’t forgiven him yet.”

“But you should.”

 

Placing the last item on the shelf in the refrigerator, Camille straightened up to meet her mother’s loving but firm gaze. Closing the appliance door to make room, Camille hugged her mother as she had as a child and wept.

 

“It’s okay, chéri; let it go.”

 

Catherine cradled her daughter while tears of relief, of release and of stress drained from Camille; Catherine had waited a year for some sign of Camille’s moving on. As she held her little girl, her hand gently soothing Camille’s back, Catherine wondered if Camille recognized the depths of her love for Richard Poole.

 

“Come. Let’s sit down.”

 

Catherine steered Camille to the couch, detouring to grab a box of tissues from the tiny closet near the kitchen. 

 

“Things are better?”

“How can they be?” Camille responded in between dabbing her nose with a tissue, “He knows I’m upset but I don’t think he understands _why_.”

“Of course he doesn't - he’s a man. He will always want to protect you. Just as Robert did. Have you explained to Richard what happened on that assignment?”

“He knows enough - he shouldn’t have left without telling me.”

“Cami, Richard didn’t leave you. He didn’t tell you but he didn’t leave you.”

“Maman, why are you defending him?”

“Because you are angry with him for something he doesn’t fully understand. Cami, you love this man. You owe him the truth about why his choices with SOCA have you so upset. He won’t understand until you tell him how Robert left you that morning.”

 

Camille stared at her mother, trying the determine how much more she'd gleaned than Camille had disclosed.

Catherine was correct; Robert left Camille asleep that morning. They’d argued almost the entire previous day then fallen into make-up sex. When she awoke, he was gone.

The arrests would happen that day and Robert wanted her safely away from them. She’d been under the weather and not in top form; he told her she’d get herself killed or she’d get him killed trying to protect her. As this was his last assignment, he wasn’t planning to die.

Death would interfere with Robert’s decision to take that early retirement they kept dangling in front of him, marry Camille and move back with her to Saint-Marie to help Catherine run La Kaz. He’d bought them a place after selling his Parisian home of 20 years for a nice profit. With his retirement check, Camille could work by choice, not necessity.

Being so much younger than Robert - almost 18 years - Camille had not yet relinquished her invincibility. She saw no reason to be left out of the culmination of almost two years of deep cover work. She hadn't seen her mother or her home in all that time. 

Camille also had no intentions of becoming a housewife - not after getting her university diplomas and surviving Robert’s inhumane training for undercover agents. If Robert worked all the recruits hard, he pushed her harder. Behind the scenes he made sure she got the best assignments and that she got credit for her excellent results. Time together led to friendship which - with proximity and shared experiences - led to love. They were discrete publicly, but passionate behind closed doors.

So Camille awoke that horrible day to a note and to someone knocking on her door. It wasn’t Robert; he always came and went through the fire escape where he had a clear view of the street. The note informed her that, as her superior officer for the task force, Robert had put her on medical leave until _after_ the arrests. He expected her to rest while she organized her files and records for the the trial. 

 

Pissed off and groggy with sleep, she approached the door full on instead from the side.

Camille looked out and opened the door to muffled shots directly to her midsection. She'd nearly died from blood loss. Fortunately, the postal carrier noticed her door sitting open and called the police; she’d been cordial with him whenever she used this locale. Her kindness saved her life.

 

“Cami, how many men have you dated?”

“Maman -”

“Indulge me. How many?”

“Including those disastrous blind dates you made me go on?”

“Leave those out. And they weren’t all bad.”

“You weren’t on them. I’ve probably dated 20, maybe 25 different men.”

“How many women do you think Richard has dated since university?”

“He told me two, including me.”

“So where would he get the experience to know what you want, what to do with a woman -”

“Trust me, Richard Poole knows what to do with a woman.”

“Cami!”

“Don’t look at me like that! You brought it up!”

“Richard has little experience in reading a woman’s emotions, her feelings. Most of what he knows has come from books.”

“How do you know this?”

“He told me; he needed someone to talk to about you. He’s so confused, Camille, that when you don’t talk to him - explain things to him - he’s not sure if he understands the problem or if he’s doing the right thing. You owe him the truth. All of it. If you demand he trust you then you must trust him and tell him what frightens you.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“Yes you are. And it’s time the two of you work your way through it. Do it now before you get married.”

“Maman, he hasn't asked and I’m not sure I’d say yes right now.”

“He will ask when he’s sure you won’t turn him down.”

 

Catherine kissed Camille’s forehead tenderly and rose to leave.

 

“I hope you’re using your contraceptives again. Now wouldn’t be a good time to bring a little one into your relationship.”

“I am, but I think Richard and I can make that decision. I thought you wanted a grand-baby ‘as soon as possible’?”

“I want my grand-baby to have a stable home with two loving parents, the home I couldn’t manage for you, chéri.”

“Maman, you are the best.”

“Thank you. I’m fortunate - I have a wonderful daughter. You might have a son. Sons need a father.”

 

Camille thought about Xavier de Mourney’s boys. The conflict in their household hadn’t diminished the boys’ love for their father. 

 

“Let me know if either one of you need anything. I’m happy to get it for you.”

“Merci, Maman.”

“Je t’aime ma petits. Take care of each other.”

 

With a final kiss to Camille’s cheek, Catherine left. 

 

Catherine’s cheshire cat grin announced success: her trip to St. Kitts accomplished more than she’d hoped.  

Camille would finally work through her remaining heartbreak over Robert with the man who’d taken his place. Catherine wondered if Camille noticed the similarity between these men - mature, brilliant, demanding, tender and attentive lovers and highly-skilled verbal combatants. Neither man would risk Camille’s safety - even if it meant losing her. Catherine hoped that one day Richard would explain to Camille his defence of her career and how the SOCA assignment accomplished this but she didn’t hold her breath; Richard‘s innate bashfulness would restrain him.

Hopefully Camille’s natural rebellious streak would do the opposite of what Catherine recommended regarding a grand-baby. She’d learned during Camille’s adolescent years that if she gave Camille the opposite of her intent, Camille would rush in the direction desired. Camille’s response that “Richard and I can make that decision” confirmed Catherine’s success; that hadn’t been Camille’s response during the couple’s argument just a few hours ago in the apartment over La Kaz.

Making a mental note to call Selwyn and Dwayne and update them on the conversations they were supposed to have had with her, Camille’s mother walked the quiet streets towards La Kaz. The couple’s confirmed rapprochement enhanced Catherine's enjoyment of the Saint-Marie evening and the opportunity it presented for daydreaming about her expanding her family.


	33. -

Camille’s weight lifting from the bed woke him. Months of workouts followed by more months of fear, stress and danger ensured he slept lightly and - awake or asleep - noticed any change in his environment.

A check of the back side of Camille’s bed stand told him she’d left her Sûreté-issued Heckler & Koch M23 in the holster attached to the rear of the cabinet. Richard ignored the pounding of his blood in his ears and forced himself to think. If Camille left the bedroom without her weapon she must have known whoever came through the door. 

She’d punish him for rescuing her when she didn’t need to be rescued but he’d punish himself if something happened to her while he stood by. With Camille’s and a stranger’s voices floating under the door, Richard calmed himself and opted for listening to determine his next move.

Slow-turning the knob meant he missed portions of the conversation: couldn’t be helped. Cracking the door sufficiently to see and hear required soundless movement so Richard tamped down his impatience. His control was rewarded with the sight of Camille and Catherine seated on the couch, talking.

Arguing with himself in his head over whether he should or should not eavesdrop on their private conversation, Richard missed some topics but heard others.

He missed the food discussion but caught Camille’s denial that they were making progress working things out. Camille’s weeping tore thorough him, distracting him. When he tuned in again he heard Catherine’s defense of him and Camille’s frustrated inquiry as to why he deserved it.

Catherine’s declaration that Richard deserved to know what really happened with Robert and why it influenced Camille’s anger nudged Richard past his comfort zone. Executing his door-opening procedure in reverse, Richard made his way back to bed to await Camille’s return.

He’d dozed off until the mattress moved underneath him, signaling her entry into the bed. Rolling towards her he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

 

“Camille, is everything alright?”

“Yes... No... Richard?...”

 

For Camille to struggle with words spoke volumes about the subject. In the subdued moonlight in their bedroom he tracked her deep inhalation and forceful exhalation as she prepared for whatever came next.

 

“Richard, I’m sorry. I haven’t told you why I’m so angry about SOCA and your murder and everything else.”

“I thought you were pretty clear about how I treated you and how you felt about it.”

“Yes, yes,” she cut in hastily, “but I haven’t explained why and I think I’ve been a bit unfair to you.”

"Is this about Robert?”

“The assignment where he was killed and me nearly so; he... left me behind because I was sick. He left me. And then he died.

 

“I was in the hospital a long time. I didn’t know he was dead. When I left the hospital on Saint-Marie he’d been buried for months. His ex-wife was next-of-kin because they had babies together and we weren’t married yet; she resented me and wouldn’t tell me where they buried him. 

“Other than the few items the Sûreté shipped from our assignment location, the ones in the box at La Kaz, I had nothing left of our relationship. The house here on Saint-Marie went to his children - which didn’t bother me until I found out they sold it. Only his name was on the deed... I don’t know why I let him do that; the down payment did come from his condo sale, though.

“I’d spent years with Robert then one day I woke up alone, years of my life gone like smoke. No house, no pictures, no mementos, no marriage... no babies. Nothing.

“Can you understand why losing you the way I did pushed all the same buttons?”

 

Richard opened his arms, inviting her into his embrace for comfort and reassurance. Untangling her legs she lay her head on his shoulder and snuggled in.

 

“Robert isn’t the only man who’s left you.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“In the cave when you were upset, you said your father left then Robert then me.

“You’re a strong woman, Camille but that had to be hard... hurtful to experience.”

“It was. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You had no way of knowing because I avoided telling you. 

 

“Do you forgive me?” she almost pleaded.

“If things work out the way I’d like them to, there will be plenty of times when we hurt or anger each other unintentionally. I will always forgive you.”

 

Her silence, accompanied by even breaths, fooled him into thinking she’d fallen asleep until she spoke.

 

“I want to move past anger, Richard. But anger keeps me from being afraid you'll leave me.”

“Like being reckless kept you from hurting?”

 

Making no sounds, Camille merely nodded into his shoulder.

 

“I’m not leaving you, Camille. And for the record, I’m petrified you’ll come to your senses and realize you can do so much better than me. You had 70 grown men in Paris wanting to drink champagne from your glass slipper.”

“I only wanted one man to take me home from the ball. Do you forgive me?”

“If you’re done retraining me as a boyfriend then I forgive you.”

 

Richard had tolerated all the separations from her he could take. Watching her drink and eat with other men at La Kaz pushed him past his limit. If it happened in front of him again, he’d already selected three pistols with quick loaders to acquire from the catalogue.

 

Camille, to his surprise, sat straight up - eyes narrowing and one eyebrow raised.

 

“What are you saying? That now you know everything you need to know to be a good partner?”

“Not everything... but I think I’m fairly considerate of you. I’m quite responsible - I have a bank account and I own a house in Croydon. Although it might be sold by now. I try not to be selfish. I certainly have better manners than most of these back-street Lotharios who pursue you.”

“Really? What about your avoidance of _any_ responsibility for contraception, huh? I have all of the responsibility **_and_** all of the risk - all you do is show up and pleasure yourself!”

“Only because you’re worried about getting pregnant. It would be more pleasurable if you stopped worrying about it.”

 

The half smile on Richard’s face communicated the truth behind his part of their argument and his utter enjoyment at a return to full-on Camille and Richard bickering. The revelation about him selling his house in England was news to her; it communicated his commitment to staying with her on Saint-Marie.

Camille enjoyed their long-absent repartee, her heated volleys accompanied by a grin that occasionally escaped her control.

 

In the momentary silence between verbal jabs, Camille relaxed.

 

“I want us to get reacquainted. I want us to move forward together. We’re not the same people we were a year ago. It’s not that I don’t want to try for a baby with you, just not... right now."

“You said you wanted to wait until we were married. Is that still true?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“And I’m going back on the pill.”

“That's not a good idea, Camille. You got _very_   **ill** as I remember it.”

“Casper needs to earn his money and find something that will work.

 

“I don’t trust you, Old Man.”

 

Camille squealed with delight as Richard tackled and subdued her underneath of him.

The last words she processed came to her from the valley between her breasts:

 

“Old Man, is it? I’ll show you an ‘Old Man’!”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As I complete this tale I have just a few closing remarks before I treat myself to some well-deserved sleep.
> 
> FUN: Check out the Full Page Chapter Index.
> 
> First, it has been invigorating to craft a plausible answer that doesn't completely violate the canon (welll... most of the time... fan fiction and all that...). I hope in reading this you've found at least one plausible way to return Mr. Poole to the living (Ben Miller's family co-location issues notwithstanding...)
> 
> For that reason, if this tome in any manner simplifies explaining Mr. Poole's return in your own writing, please use the ideas. Someone might as well benefit from my insomnia.
> 
> It was my purposeful intent to move Richard forward in this. There are ways that the challenges in our lives focus us more on how to be our better selves; if we're smart, we think more on our relationships with those we care about. If this Richard seems less unsure it's because he is - where Camille is concerned. Similarly, my less-than-forgiving Camille stems from her over-extended emotions when his death is faked. Up until then, Camille had been the 60% to Richard's effort-laden 40% in their fledgling relationship. Her dawning awareness of his letting her go through this sadness might piss her off more than a little. I'm interested, as always, in hearing the reader's view of the integrity of the portrayals in this story.
> 
> I would again invite all who are writing post-S2E8 Richard Poole works to add them the the DIP: Richard Poole Lives! collection so that there is a body of work capable of educating someone at BBC and of persuading Ben Miller that his family will enjoy their time on location in Guadeloupe whilst he's working. Tutors and nannies are wonderful people.
> 
> Finally, I am indebted to the many writers and commenters here for tickling my grey cells and driving me to finish. The medical research nearly drove me to abandon this work unpublished. Like most you out there I have a real life and a day job (at least I used to before I started writing and publishing this story).
> 
> So here's my list of shout outs for this tale:
> 
> HeatherTN for volunteering to keep me straight on the medical stuff and then for forcing me to actually let them get back together in this story and not a follow on. (okay, so sue me: I was tired and wanted a break from this thing. Based on my normal writing efforts this story is HUGE)
> 
> Million_Moments for reminding me how wonderfully devious Catherine is. Without that reminder I couldn't have written the ending.
> 
> SportyScribe - who writes for a living - for always letting me know when my blinding glimpses of the obvious were written well enough to actually _be_ blinding glimpses of the obvious.
> 
> Kas for erudite feedback on whether my words made sense.
> 
> And HeatherTN for Casper - who I turned into a doctor with the family name Gentili - and for Camille's loss of a fiance in a prior assignment.
> 
> Willowsticks for comments that helped me see poignant moments in my story that I was unaware I'd written and for the idea from her own stories that Richard is more interested (at this point in their relationship) in starting a family than Camille. Understandable as he's never actually **lived** in a house with small children underfoot.
> 
> Dimac99 for objective clarity on where my characters appeared to be going and whether my choices were BS or not.
> 
> And HeatherTN - again - for sending me play by play descriptions of the asthma attacks she was having because I wasn't writing or posting FAST ENOUGH to satisfy her OBSESSION for Camille to forgive Richard COMPLETELY and get them back TOGETHER. Honestly, the way some folks operate... LOL
> 
>    
> Off to beddy-bye. After a case of something soporific.
> 
> Thanks and regards to all. It's FINALLY over.
> 
> * _Yawn..._


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